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LIBRARY 

OK   Till: 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


"POSSON    JONE" 

AND 
PERE    RAPHAEL 


POSSON   JONE' 

AM) 

PERE  RAPHAEL 


WITH     A 

\KW     WOK  I)    SKTTIXC;     F  OUT  1 1     HOW    AND     \\    [  M" 
T  II  K    TWO    TA  L  KS    A  K  K    ON  K 


GEORC;E  w.  CABLE 


ILLVSTKATKI)    15  Y 
STANLEY   M.   AKTHURS 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1909 


V-' 


rdE^c&s/ 

-K-^sg^ 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Vignette  Title-page 

Facing  page 

In  his  arms  he  bore  .  .  .  the  tiger  19 

"  Shoot,  ef  you  dare !    You  can  kill  me,  but 

you  can't  scare  me!"  44 

A    ray   of  moonlight  Jell  upon  M.   Jules 
St.-Ange  56 

Colossus  rose  stealthily  and  tiptoed  by  his 

still  shouting  master  70 

Swelled  for  a  fitting  retort  from  a  Creole 
gentleman  72 

Florestine  .  .  .  sent  him  a  soft  call  of  dis 
tress  106 

"  Fine,  Miche  Jules  !  Jules  !  "  128 

But  Caroline,  outside  the  double  gate,  went 

and  came,  describing  and  explaining  132 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

]W  months  ago  I  stood  once  more 

in    Royal    Street,    New    Orleans, 

where  all  about  me  the  very  names 

of  the  thoroughfares  have  a  quaint   flavor 

of  age  and  poetry.     I  mean  half-way  down 

between  Canal  Street  and  that  small  garden 

which,  at  the  head  of   Orleans,  between  St. 

Peter  and  St.  Ann,  so  pleasantly  adorns  the 

rear  end,  the  good  old  Spanish  end,  of  St. 

Louis  cathedral. 

The  half-way  corner  where  I  paused,  say 
a  short  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Canal  Street 
behind  me  and  that  garden  before,  was  of 
particular  interest  to  me  because  of  my  hav 
ing  taken,  long  ago,  a  story-teller's  liberty 
with  it,  to  the  extent  of  pinching  back  the 
[3] 


INTRODUCTION 

architectural  history  of  one  of  its  buildings 
some  seven  years  in  order  to  accommodate 
niy  friends  Parson  Jones  and  Jules  St.-Ange; 
a  thing  I  hardly  would  have  done  for  any 
one  else  in  the  world,  except,  of  course,  the 
present  reader. 

But  there  was  a  further  reason  for  my 
halt.  I  was  at  that  special  cross-roads  to 
try  if  the  spot  itself  would  not  show  me  how 
to  make  as  plain  to  the  reader,  before  he 
should  begin  to  read  them,  as  it  has  always 
been  to  the  author,  the  fact  that  the  printing 
of  these  two  stories  together  is  a  requirement 
of  their  veritable  unity,  their  essential  one 
ness,  a  genuine  love-match,  made  in  heaven, 
as  lovers  say,  and  bred  of  an  affinity  back 
of  all  time! 

With  this  purpose  in  mind,  latent  per 
haps,  but  "in  being,"  I  paused  to  gaze  on 
[4] 


INTRODUCTION 

the  startling  change  going  on  across  the 
way,  where  Dimitry  Davezac  a  scant  cen 
tury  ago  hovered  for  a  glimpse  of  Abigail  at 
some  front  window  of  Jules's  home  in  that 
same  Sabbath  morning  hour  in  which  St.- 
Ange  and  the  West  Floridian  parson  met, 
at  the  capture  of  the  latter 's  runaway  hat. 
On  that  side  the  buildings  of  an  entire 
square — Andrew  Jackson's  headquarters, 
Gottschalk's  birthplace,  the  shops  of  the 
comb-mender  and  the  pawnbroker,  with  all 
the  other  structures,  tall  or  squat,  around 
which,  that  morning,  went  Jules  and  the 
Parson  into  the  Rue  Chartres  on  their  absurd 
circuit  to  Miguel's  gambling-den — were  gone, 
wiped  off  the  earth  forever,  and  in  their  place 
was  rising  one  vast,  beautiful  marble  palace 
of  justice  (human  justice),  wherein  all  the 
tribunals  of  the  stupendously  expanded  city 
[5] 


INTRODUCTION 

will  ere  long  be  housed  together.  I  could 
not  resent  the  metamorphosis,  yet  I  was 
glad  that  I  had  found  here,  before  the  reno 
vation  came,  not  one  story  alone,  but  two, 
and  they  spiritually  twins,  occupying  the 
same  place  at  the  same  time,  life-mated  long 
before  the  birth  of  either,  and  this  equally 
by  the  spot's  ancient  romantic  warrant  and 
by  the  modernest  court  sanction;  for  there 
stood  the  courts,  silent,  and  by  their  own 
immemorial  ruling  silence  is  assent. 

I  say  by  the  spot's  warrant  of  antiquity, 
romance,  and  picturesque  decay,  for  this  I 
had  already  realized  at  nearly  every  step  of 
my  approach,  and  especially  at  one  point 
only  a  few  yards  behind  me.  I  had  found 
the  persistently  warm,  moist  air  still  laying 
its  pathetic  touch  of  premature  age  and  de 
cline  on  every  wall  and  roof  that  betrayed 
[61 


INTRODUCTION 

the  slightest  neglect,  and  still  that  touch  was 
half  redeemed  by  the  complacent  oblivious- 
ness  to  it  of  tenant,  landlord,  and  the  general 
eye;  while  historic  interest,  eccentricity  of 
architectural  lines,  and  bravery  of  color  on 
masonry  and  carpentry  and  in  human  dress 
and  adornment  maintained  as  ever  their 
quaint  pre-eminence.  In  "Perc  Raphael" 
there  is  mention  of  wide  archways.  At  the 
point  I  name  I  had  noted  one  of  these  open 
ing  inward  from  the  sidewalk  by  high 
double-leaved  doors  of  dingy  green  iron 
openwork.  The  passage  within,  some  eight 
feet  broad,  was  colored  a  strong  terra-cotta 
hue  the  first  four  feet  up  from  its  stone  flag 
ging,  and  then  white  maybe  eight  feet  more 
to  the  bright  green  ceiling.  It  ended  in  a 
second  arch  some  forty  feet  away,  whose 
openwork  gates,  still  handsomer  than  the 

m 


INTRODUCTION 

near  ones,  were  of  wrought  iron  and,  stand 
ing  wide,  laid  the  dark  lace  of  their  pattern 
against  the  two  white  and  terra-cotta  walls. 
Beyond  lay  a  small,  square,  flagged  court 
deeply  shut  in  all  round  by  lofty  buildings. 
At  its  farther  bound  a  heavy  green  batten 
door,  broad,  high,  arched,  and  grimly  ironed, 
but  open,  showed  an  interior  whose  rich 
brown  half-light  revealed  rising  tiers  of  wine 
casks  of  the  same  color  in  livelier  tints.  In 
the  court,  beside  the  door,  a  stack  of  yellow 
wine  cases  stood  against  a  wall  of  smoky 
white  stucco  with  large  peeled-away  blotches 
of  age-softened  red  brickwork  picked  out 
with  the  gray  of  its  crumbling  mortar.  Above 
these  cases  an  iron-barred  window,  twice  as 
wide  as  it  was  high,  a  sort  of  huge  transom, 
occupied  much  of  the  wall,  yet  showed  only 
darkness  behind  it.  I  might  admit  that  for 
[8] 


INTRODUCTION 

striking  effect  the  moment  was  fortunate, 
were  it  not  that  in  that  region  I  have  never 
known  when  it  was  not  fortunate.  At  any 
rate,  the  court's  green-brown  flagging  was 
shining  wet,  and  repeated  all  those  good 
lines  and  daring  colors  in  its  mirror.  A 
man  in  dark  trousers  and  a  navy-blue  shirt 
came  out  of  the  wine-room,  bearing  by  its 
hand-holes  another  of  those  yellow  cases  of 
bottled  wine  or  ale  to  the  stack;  and  on  the 
same  instant,  as  if  Dame  Fortune  had 
turned  stage  manager,  verily,  at  a  leisurely 
untirnorous  trot,  a  coal-black  cat  picked  her 
steps  across  the  wet  court  from  some  ferns 
and  tropical  shrubberies  against  one  side 
wall  to  others  on  the  opposite  boundary. 

Do  you  notice  how  exclusively  masculine 
was  the  whole  scene  ?   Its  one  poor  hint  of  do 
mesticity  was  the  cat,  and  she,  like  enough, 
[9] 


INTRODUCTION 

was  but  a  warehouse  cat  after  all.  As  lone- 
somely  masculine  it  all  was  as  the  tale  of 
"Posson  Jone'."  And  then  see  what  fol 
lowed.  The  perfection  of  the  picture,  except 
for  this  one  subtle  drawback,  argued  the  im 
probability  that  there  could  be  anything  to 
match  it  near  by,  yet  moved  me,  as  I  went 
on,  to  go  with  seeking  eyes,  and  I  had  not  left 
the  sight  five  steps  behind  when  I  found  its 
consort!  Oh,  mark  you!  this  is  no  builded 
fiction,  but  the  clean  sand  of  fact  as  I  noted  it 
down  right  there  lest  later  I  might  let  imagi 
nation  impose  on  memory.  This  second 
archway  and  court  had  batten  gates  at  their 
sidewalk  front,  with  a  batten  wicket  in  one  of 
them.  The  arcade  was  colored  brown  and 
terra-cotta.  In  the  court  was  a  riot  of  palm, 
rubber,  and  banana  foliage,  with  banks  and 
hanging-baskets  of  ferns,  and  under  the  arch 
[10] 


INTRODUCTION 

that  curved  between  these  and  the  dark  arch 
way,  against  the  luminous  greenery,  and  with 
a  fine  old  lamp  and  crane  of  wrought  iron 
overhanging  their  heads,  sat  three  women  of 
the  household,  in  rocking-chairs,  sewing.  I 
could  not  turn  my  back  so  promptly  and 
make  believe  to  be  taking  my  pencil  notes 
from  across  the  way,  but  a  young  man  came 
with  the  firm  step  and  polite  emphasis  of  a 
Davezac  and  shut  the  wicket.  The  tale  of 
"Pere  Raphael"  was  justified. 

A  story-teller  does  not  so  much  make  a 
story  as  find  it.  He  finds  the  stone,  he  cuts 
the  gem.  Stories,  like  wild  flowers,  are  the 
product  of  the  soil  that  favors  them,  and  I 
have  my  own  experience  in  this  very  case 
to  show  that  a  soil  has  only  to  be  rich 
enough  in  order  for  one  story  to  become  two 
and  yet  the  two  to  remain  one.  Also  to 

in] 


INTRODUCTION 

show,  twice  proved,  that  the  story-teller  is 
most  likely  to  find  the  sort  of  story  he  is 
looking  for.  "Posson  Jone'"  is  a  story  of 
love,  yet  not,  in  its  initial  singleness,  a  love 
story.  I  found  it  because  I  was  distinctively 
seeking  one  that  should  portray  an  ardent 
and  controlling  mutual  affection  springing 
into  life  wholly  apart  from  the  passion  of 
sex;  flowering  out  of  the  pure  admiration  of 
two  masculine  characters  for  their  utter 
opposites,  and  overcoming  all  the  separative 
distance  that  could  be  made  by  antipodal 
conditions  of  nationality,  religious  training, 
political  sentiment,  native  temperament, 
years,  and  social  quality  and  tradition. 

As    fulfilling    these    conditions    "Posson 

Jone' "  so  satisfied  my  easily  pleased  fancy 

and  found  its  way  so  steadily,  though  slowly, 

into  the  favor  of  readers,  that  for  years  it  did 

[12] 


INTRODUCTION 

not  occur  to  me  that  another  story  of  the 
same  time,  place,  and  circumstance  might  be 
lying  beneath  it,  like  one  painting  beneath 
another  in  the  same  frame  and  on  the  same 
canvas,  or  like  one  fireplace  around  another 
in  some  big  chimney  of  an  old  mansion. 
I  doubt  if  I  should  ever  have  thought  of  it 
had  I  not  been  kept  many  years  in  the  clos 
est  companionship  of  Jules  and  the  Parson 
by  the  flattering  willingness  of  public  audi 
ences  to  hear  their  episode  recounted;  but 
through  this  ever-growing  intimacy  the  be 
lief,  so  to  call  it,  came  and  its  reasonableness 
argued  for  it.  It  seemed  hardly  rational  to 
go  on  assuming  that  two  souls  so  fitly 
made  for  loving  and  so  prompt  and  glad  to 
love  that  their  worship  of  moral  strength  and 
beauty  could  carry  their  affections  over  such 
a  gulf  of  dissimilarity  should  not  have,  operat- 
[13] 


INTRODUCTION 

ing  potentially  in  their  daily  lives,  that  most 
universal  of  all  love's  forms,  the  grand  pas 
sion.  Parson  Jones  was  probably  already 
a  husband  or  a  widower;  but  Jules  was 
young,  handsome,  single,  a  Latin,  and  a 
Creole.  At  that  phase  of  my  thought  one 
circumstance  of  the  tale  after  another  rose  up 
in  confirming  evidence,  and  the  moment  the 
author  accused  his  blithe  hero  of  having 
another  story,  as  you  might  say,  concealed 
on  his  person  the  blithe  Creole  brought  it 
forth  as  frankly  as,  a  hundred  years  ago,  he 
had  produced  his  card-table  spoils  to  Parson 
Jones  on  the  banks  of  Bayou  St.  John. 

With  only  the  pleasantest  feelings  I  recog 
nize  that  many  a  kind  friend  of  Jones  and 
Jules  will  resent  what  at  first  blush  they  may 
suspect  to  be  an  arbitrary  yoking  of  that  pair 
with  Florestine,  Dimitry,  and  Abigail,  and 
[14] 


INTRODUCTION 

will  declare  without  granting  so  much  as  a 
preliminary  hearing  that  the  tale  of  these 
latter  is  not  the  tale  of  the  former.  But, 
queerly  enough,  that  is  almost  precisely 
what  was  originally  said,  by  one  of  the  lead 
ing  editors  of  our  land,  concerning  the  first 
story,  when  declining  it  for  his  magazine: 
that  it  was  not  the  right  story,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  not  a  love  story.  In  fact,  Posson 
Jone'  had  a  hard  time  getting  into  print, 
went  bowing  and  scraping  from  editorial 
door  to  door,  and  on  being  printed,  was  re 
ceived  with  as  quiet  a  neglect  as  any  rustic 
could  be.  A  year  or  so  later,  on  the  first 
issuance  of  "Old  Creole  Days,"  with  Jones 
and  Jules  in  it,  one  noted  critic  and  warm 
friend  was  openly  vexed  that  so  poor  a  tale 
as  theirs  should  have  been  assigned — by 
oversight — a  place  which  he  believed  to  be 
[15] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  strategic  value  for  the  fortunes  of  the 
book;  to  wit,  the  end  of  the  procession. 

However,  let  us  sum  up  in  the  one  word, 
that  this  alliance  is  no  manage  de  convenance, 
whatever  may  be  the  two  tales'  disparity  of 
years;    though,  if  it  were,  our  Gallic  Jules 
would  be  the  most  likely  of  us  all  to  take  it 
as  a  matter  of  course  and  draw  from  it  the 
fullest  measure  of  delight.    Here  are  the  two 
stories  joined  in  wedlock,  and  here  their  par 
ent  unfeignedly  well  pleased  with  the  una 
voidably  delayed  match,  and  harboring,  after 
all,  only  the  one  fear  that,  in  his  eagerness  to 
please  everybody,  he  may  be  absurdly  over 
estimating  his  reader's  interest  in  the  case. 
The  one  true  test  of  the  match's  goodness 
is  for  the  reader  to  read  on  with  an  open  and 
charitable  mind.     If,  at  the  volume's  end, 
approval  is  no  more  apathetic  than  it  was 
[16] 


INTRODUCTION 

to  each  of  the  contracting  parties  separately 
on  their  first  appearance,  the  author  will 
venture  to  hope  for  them  a  long  and  happy 

married  life. 

G.  W.  CABLE. 

NORTHAMPTON,  MASS.,  July,  1909. 


[17] 


-  rosso  x    jo  x  E' 


In  his  (inns  he  bore  .  .  .  the  tiger 


"PQSSON    JONE' 

TO     Jules     St.-Ange — elegant    little 
heathen  —  there    yet    remained    at 
manhood  a  remembrance  of  having 
been  sent  to   school,   and   of  having   been 
taught  by  a  stony-headed  Capuchin  that  the 
world  is  round — for  example,  like  a  cheese. 
This  round  world  is  a  cheese  to  be  eaten 
through,  and   Jules  had  nibbled  quite   into 
his  cheese- world  already  at  twenty- two. 

He  realized  this  as  he  idled  about  one 
Sunday  morning  where  the  intersection  of 
Royal  and  Conti  Streets  some  seventy  years 
ago  formed  a  central  corner  of  New  Orleans. 
Yes,  yes,  the  trouble  was  he  had  been  waste 
ful  and  honest.  He  discussed  the  matter 
with  that  faithful  friend  and  confidant,  Bap- 
[21] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

tiste,  his  yellow  body-servant.  They  con 
cluded  that,  papa's  patience  and  tante's  pin- 
money  having  been  gnawed  away  quite  to 
the  rind,  there  were  left  open  only  these  few 
easily  enumerated  resorts:  to  go  to  work — 
they  shuddered;  to  join  Major  Innerarity's 
filibustering  expedition;  or  else — why  not? 
—to  try  some  games  of  confidence.  At 
twenty-two  one  must  begin  to  be  something. 
Nothing  else  tempted ;  could  that  avail  ? 
One  could  but  try.  It  is  noble  to  try;  and, 
besides,  they  were  hungry.  If  one  could 
"make  the  friendship"  of  some  person  from 
the  country,  for  instance,  with  money,  not 
expert  at  cards  or  dice,  but,  as  one  would 
say,  willing  to  learn,  one  might  find  cause  to 
say  some  "Hail  Marys." 

The  sun  broke  through  a  clearing  sky, 
and  Baptiste  pronounced  it  good  for  luck. 
[22] 


;'POSSON     JONE' 

There  had  been  a  hurricane  in  the  night. 
The  weed-grown  tile-roofs  were  still  drip 
ping,  and  from  lofty  brick  and  low  adobe 
walls  a  rising  steam  responded  to  the  sum 
mer  sunlight,  tip-street,  and  across  the  Rue 
du  Canal,  one  could  get  glimpses  of  the  gar 
dens  in  Faubourg  Ste.-Marie  standing  in 
silent  wretchedness,  so  many  tearful  Lucre- 
tias,  tattered  victims  of  the  storm.  Short 
remnants  of  the  wind  now  and  then  came 
down  the  narrow  street  in  erratic  puffs  heav 
ily  laden  with  odors  of  broken  boughs  and 
torn  flowers,  skimmed  the  little  pools  of 
rain-water  in  the  deep  ruts  of  the  unpaved 
street,  and  suddenly  went  away  to  nothing, 
like  a  juggler's  butterflies  or  a  young  man's 
money. 

It  was  very  picturesque,  the  Rue  Royale. 
The  rich  and  poor  met  together.    The  lock- 
[23] 


'POSSON    JONE' 

smith's  swinging  key  creaked  next  door  to 
the  bank;  across  the  way,  crouching  men 
dicant-like  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  import 
ing  house,  was  the  mud  laboratory  of  the 
mender  of  broken  combs.  Light  balconies 
overhung  the  rows  of  showy  shops  and  stores 
open  for  trade  this  Sunday  morning,  and 
pretty  Latin  faces  of  the  higher  class  glanced 
over  their  savagely  pronged  railings  upon 
the  passers  below.  At  some  windows  hung 
lace  curtains,  flannel  duds  at  some,  and  at 
others  only  the  scraping  and  sighing  one- 
hinged  shutter  groaning  toward  Paris  after 
its  neglectful  master. 

M.  St.-Ange  stood  looking  up  and  down 
the  street  for  nearly  an  hour.  But  few 
ladies,  only  the  inveterate  mass-goers,  were 
out.  About  the  entrances  of  the  frequent 
cafes  the  masculine  gentility  stood  leaning 
[24] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

on  canes,  with  which  now  one  and  now  an 
other  beckoned  to  Jules,  some  even  adding 
pantomimic  hints  of  the  social  cup. 

M.  St.-Ange  remarked  to  his  servant  with 
out  turning  his  head  that  somehow  he  felt 
sure  he  should  soon  return  those  bons  that 
the  mulatto  had  lent  him. 

"What  will  you  do  with  them?" 

"Me!"  said  Baptiste,  quickly;  "I  will  go 
and  see  the  bull-fight  in  the  Place  Congo." 

"There  is  to  be  a  bull-fight?  But  where 
isM.  Cayetano?" 

"Ah,  got  all  his  affairs  wet  in  the  tornado. 
Instead  of  his  circus,  they  are  to  have  a  bull 
fight —  not  an  ordinary  bull-fight  with  sick 
horses,  but  a  buffalo-and-tiger  fight.  I 
would  not  miss  it — 

Two  or  three  persons  ran  to  the  oppo 
site  corner  and  began  striking  at  some- 
[25] 


"POSSON   JONE' 

thing  with  their  canes.  Others  followed. 
Can  M.  St.-Ange  and  servant,  who  hasten 
forward — can  the  Creoles,  Cubans,  Span 
iards,  St.  Domingo  refugees,  and  other 
loungers — can  they  hope  it  is  a  fight  ?  They 
hurry  forward.  Is  a  man  in  a  fit?  The 
crowd  pours  in  from  the  side-streets.  Have 
they  killed  a  so-long  snake?  Bareheaded 
shopmen  leave  their  wives,  who  stand  upon 
chairs.  The  crowd  huddles  and  packs. 
Those  on  the  outside  make  little  leaps  into 
the  air,  trying  to  be  tall. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Have  they  caught  a  real  live  rat  ?" 

"Who  is  hurt  ?' '  asks  some  one  in  English. 

"Personne,"    replies    a    shopkeeper;     "a 
man's  hat  blow'  in  the  gutter;   but  he  has  it 
now.     Jules  pick  it.     See,  that  is  the  man, 
head  and  shoulders  on  top  the  res'." 
[26] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

"He  in  the  homespun?"  asks  a  second 
shopkeeper.  "Humph!  an  Americain — a 
West-Floridian;  bah!" 

"But  wait;   'st!   he  is  speaking;  listen!" 

"To  who' is  he  speak ?" 

"Sh-sh-sh!   to  Jules." 

"Jules  who?" 

"Silence,  you!  To  Jules  St.-Ange,  what 
h-owe  me  a  bill  since  long  time.  Sh-sh-sh!" 

Then  the  voice  was  heard. 

Its  owner  was  a  man  of  giant  stature,  with 
a  slight  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  were 
making  a  constant,  good-natured  attempt  to 
accommodate  himself  to  ordinary  doors  and 
ceilings.  His  bones  were  those  of  an  ox. 
His  face  was  marked  more  by  weather  than 
age,  and  his  narrow  brow  was  bald  and 
smooth.  He  had  instantaneously  formed  an 
opinion  of  Jules  St.-Ange,  and  the  multitude 
[27] 


'POSSON     JONE'" 

of  words,  most  of  them  lingual  curiosities, 
with  which  he  was  rasping  the  wide-open 
ears  of  his  listeners,  signified,  in  short,  that, 
as  sure  as  his  name  was  Parson  Jones,  the 
little  Creole  was  a  "plumb  gentleman." 

M.  St.-Ange  bowed  and  smiled,  and  was 
about  to  call  attention,  by  both  gesture  and 
speech,  to  a  singular  object  on  top  of  the  still 
uncovered  head,  when  the  nervous  motion 
of  the  Americain  anticipated  him,  as,  throw 
ing  up  an  immense  hand,  he  drew  down  a 
large  roll  of  bank-notes.  The  crowd  laughed, 
the  West-Floridian  joining,  and  began  to 
disperse. 

"Why,  that  money  belongs  to  Smyrny 
Church,"  said  the  giant. 

"You  are  very  dengerous  to  make  your 
money  expose  like  that,  Misty  Posson  Jone'," 
said  St.-Ange,  counting  it  with  his  eyes. 
[28] 


"POSSON     JONE" 

The  countryman  gave  a  start  and  smile  of 
surprise. 

"  How  d'd  you  know  my  name  was  Jones  ? " 
he  asked;  but,  without  pausing  for  the  Cre 
ole's  answer,  furnished  in  his  reckless  way 
some  further  specimens  of  West-Floridian 
English;  and  the  conciseness  with  which  he 
presented  full  intelligence  of  his  home,  fam 
ily,  calling,  lodging-house,  and  present  and 
future  plans,  might  have  passed  for  con 
summate  art,  had  it  not  been  the  most  run- 
wild  nature.  "And  I've  done  been  to  Mobile, 
you  know,  on  business  for  Bethesdy  Church. 
It's  the  on'yest  time  I  ever  been  from  home; 
now  you  wouldn't  of  believed  that,  would 
you  ?  But  I  admire  to  have  saw  you,  that's 
so.  You've  got  to  come  and  eat  with  me. 
Me  and  my  boy  ain't  been  fed  yit.  What 
might  one  call  yo'  name  ?  Jools  ?  Come  on, 
[29] 


'POSSON     JONE' 

Jools.  Come  on,  Colossus.  That's  my  nig- 
gah — his  name's  Colossus  of  Rhodes.  Is 
that  yo'  yallah  boy,  Jools  ?  Fetch  him  along, 
Colossus.  It  seems  like  a  special  providence. 
—Jools,  do  you  believe  in  a  special  provi 
dence  ?" 

Jules  remembered  the  roll  of  bank-notes 
and  said  he  did. 

The  new-made  friends  moved  briskly  off, 
followed  by  Baptiste  and  a  short,  square, 
old  negro,  very  black  and  grotesque,  who 
had  introduced  himself  to  the  mulatto,  with 
many  glittering  and  cavernous  smiles,  as 
"d'body-sarvant  of  d'Rev'n'  Mr.  Jones." 

Both  pairs  enlivened  their  walk  with  con 
versation.  Parson  Jones  descanted  upon 
the  doctrine  he  had  mentioned,  as  illustrated 
in  the  perplexities  of  cotton-growing,  and 
concluded  that  there  would  always  be  "a 
[30] 


'POSSON     JONE' 

special  province  again'  cotton  untell  folks 
quits  a-pressin'  of  it  and  haulm'  of  it  on 
Sundays!" 

"Je  dis,"  said  St.-Ange,  in  response,  "I 
thing  you  is  juz  right.  I  believe,  me,  strong- 
strong  in  the  improvidence,  yes.  You  know 
my  papa  he  h-own  a  sugah-plantation,  you 
know.  *  Jules,  my  son,'  he  say  one  time  to 
me,  'I  goin'  to  make  one  baril  sugah  to  fedge 
the  moze  high  price  in  New  Orleans.'  Well, 
he  take  his  bez  baril  sugah — I  nevah  see 
a  so  careful  man  like  my  papa  always  to 
make  a  so  beautiful  sugah  ct  sirop.  '  Jules, 
go  at  Father  Pierre  an'  ged  this  lill  pitcher 
fill  with  holy-water,  an'  tell  him  sen'  his  tin 
bucket,  and  I  will  make  it  fill  with  quitted 
I  ged  the  holy- water;  my  papa  sprinkle  it 
over  the  baril,  an'  make  one  cross  on  the 
'ead  of  the  baril." 

[31] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

"Why,  Jools,"  said  Parson  Jones, "that 
didn't  do  no  good." 

"Din  do  no  good!  Id  broughd  the  so 
great  value !  You  can  strike  me  dead  if  thad 
baril  sugah  din  fedge  the  more  high  cost 
than  any  other  in  the  city.  Parceque,  the 
man  what  buy  that  baril  sugah  he  make  a 
mistake  of  one  hundred  pound  ' '  — falling 
back — "Mais  certainlee ! " 

"And  you  think  that  was  growin'  out  of 
the  holy-water?"  asked  the  parson. 

"Mais,  what  could  make  it  else?  Id 
could  not  be  the  quitte,  because  my  papa 
keep  the  bucket,  an'  forget  to  sen'  the  quitte 
to  Father  Pierre." 

Parson  Jones  was  disappointed. 

"Well,  now,  Jools,  you  know,  I  don't 
think  that  was  right.  I  reckon  you  must  be 

a  plumb  Catholic." 

[32] 


"POSSON    JONE'" 

M.  St.-Ange  shrugged.  He  would  not 
deny  his  faith. 

"I  am  a  Catholique,  mais" — brightening 
as  he  hoped  to  recommend  himself  anew — 
"not  a  good  one." 

"Well,  you  know,"  said  Jones— " where's 
Colossus?  Oh!  all  right.  Colossus  strayed 
off  a  minute  in  Mobile,  and  I  plumb  lost  him 
for  two  days.  Here's  the  place;  come  in. 
Colossus  and  this  boy  can  go  to  the  kitchen. 
—Now,  Colossus,  what  air  you  a-beckonin' 
at  me  faw?" 

He  let  his  servant  draw  him  aside  and 
address  him  in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  go  Vay!"  said  the  parson  with  a 
jerk.  "Who's  goin'  to  throw  me?  What? 
Speak  louder.  Why,  Colossus,  you  shay  n't 
talk  so,  saw.  Ton  my  soul,  yo're  the  might 
iest  fool  I  ever  taken  up  with.  Jest  you  go 
[33] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

down  that  alley-way  with  this  yallah  boy,  and 
don't  show  yo'  face  untell  yo'  called!" 

The  negro  begged;  the  master  wrathily 
insisted. 

"Colossus,  will  you  do  ez  I  tell  you,  or 
shell  I  hev'  to  strike  you,  saw  ?" 

"O  Mahs  Jimmy,  I— I's  gwine;    but" 
he  ventured  nearer — "don't  on  no  account 
drink  nothin',  Mahs  Jimmy." 

Such  was  the  negro's  earnestness  that  he 
put  one  foot  in  the  gutter,  and  fell  heavily 
against  his  master.  The  parson  threw  him 
off  angrily. 

"Thar,  now!  Why,  Colossus,  you  most 
of  been  dosted  with  sumthin';  yo'  plumb 
crazy. — Humph,  come  on,  Jools,  let's  eat: 
Humph!  to  tell  me  that  when  I  never  taken 
a  drop,  exceptin'  for  chills,  in  my  life— 
which  he  knows  so  as  well  as  me!" 
[34] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

The  two  masters  began  to  ascend  a  stair. 

"Mais,  he  is  a  sassy;  I  would  sell  him, 
me,"  said  the  young  Creole. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  replied  the 
parson;  "though  there  is  people  in  Bethesdy 
who  says  he  is  a  roscal.  He's  a  powerful 
smart  fool.  Why,  that  boy's  got  money, 
Jools;  more  money  than  religion,  I  reckon. 
I'm  shore  he  fallen  into  mighty  bad  com 
pany" — they  passed  beyond  earshot. 

Baptiste  and  Colossus,  instead  of  going  to 
the  tavern  kitchen,  went  on  to  the  next  door 
and  entered  the  dark  rear  corner  of  a  low 
grocery,  where,  the  law  notwithstanding, 
liquor  was  covertly  sold  to  slaves.  There, 
in  the  quiet  company  of  Baptiste  and  the 
grocer,  the  colloquial  powers  of  Colossus, 
which  were  simply  prodigious,  began  very 
soon  to  show  themselves. 
[35] 


"POSSON     JONE'" 

"For  whilst,"  said  he,  "Mahs  Jimmy  has 
eddication,  you  know — whilst  he  has  eddi- 
cation,  I  has  'scretion.  He  has  eddication 
and  I  has  'scretion,  an'  so  we  gits  along." 

He  drew  a  black  bottle  down  the  counter, 
and,  laying  half  his  length  upon  the  damp 
board,  continued: 

"As  a  p'inciple  I  discredits  de  imbimin' 
of  awjus  liquors.  De  imbimin'  of  aw  jus 
liquors,  de  wiolution  of  de  Sabbaf,  de  playin' 
of  de  fiddle,  and  de  usin'  of  by-words,  dey  is 
de  fo'  sins  of  de  conscience;  an*  if  any  man 
sin  de  fo'  sins  of  de  conscience,  de  debble 
done  sharp  his  fork  fo'  dat  man. — Ain't  dat 
so,  boss?" 

The  grocer  was  sure  it  was  so. 

" Neberdeless,  mind  you" — here  the  orator 
brimmed  his  glass  from  the  bottle  and  swal 
lowed  the  contents  with  a  dry  eye — "mind 
[36] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

you,  a  roytious  man,  sech  as  ministers  of  de 
gospel  and  deir  body-sarvants,  can  take  a 
leetle  for  de  weak  stomach." 

But  the  fascinations  of  Colossus's  elo 
quence  must  not  mislead  us;  this  is  the 
story  of  a  true  Christian;  to  wit,  Parson 
Jones. 

The  parson  and  his  new  friend  ate.  But 
the  coffee  M.  St.-Ange  declared  he  could  not 
touch;  it  was  too  wretchedly  bad.  At  the 
French  Market,  near  by,  there  was  some 
noble  coffee.  This,  however,  would  have  to 
be  bought,  and  Parson  Jones  had  scruples. 

"You  see,  Jools,  every  man  has  his  con 
science  to  guide  him,  which  it  does  so  in— 

"Oh,   yes!"   cried   St.-Ange,   "conscien'; 

thad  is  the  bez,  Posson  Jone'.     Certainlee! 

I  am  a  Caiholique,  you  is  a  schismatique; 

you  thing  it  is  wrong  to  dring  some  coffee — 

[37] 


'  POSSON     JONE' 

well,  then,  it  is  wrong;  you  thing  it  is  wrong 
to  make  the  sugah  to  ged  the  so  large  price 
— well,  then,  it  is  wrong;  I  thing  it  is  right 
—well,  then  it  is  right;  it  is  all  'abit;  c'est 
tout.  What  a  man  thing  is  right,  is  right;  'tis 
all  'abit.  A  man  muz  nod  go  again'  his  con- 
scien'.  My  faith!  do  you  thing  I  would  go 
again'  my  conscien'  ?  Mais  allons,  led  us 
go  and  ged  some  coffee." 

"Jools." 

"Wat?" 

"Jools,  it  ain't  the  drinkin*  of  coffee,  but 
the  buyin'  of  it  on  a  Sabbath.  You  must 
really  excuse  me,  Jools,  it's  again'  con 
science,  you  know." 

"Ah!"   said    St.-Ange,    "c'est   very   true. 

For  you  it  would  be  a  sin,  mais  for  me  it  is 

only  'abit.     Rilligion  is  a  very  strange;    I 

know  a  man  one  time,  he  thing  it  was  wrong 

[38] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

to  go  to  cock-fight  Sunday  evening.  I  thing 
it  is  all  'abit.  Mais,  come,  Posson  Jone'; 
I  have  got  one  friend,  Miguel;  led  us  go  at 
his  house  and  ged  some  coffee.  Come; 
Miguel  have  no  familie;  only  him  and  Joe — 
always  like  to  see  friend;  allons,  led  us  come 
yonder." 

"Why,  Jools,  my  dear  friend,  you  know," 
said  the  shamefaced  parson,  "I  never  visit 
on  Sundays." 

"Never  w'at?"  asked  the  astounded 
Creole. 

"No,"  said  Jones,  smiling  awkwardly. 

"Never  visite  ?" 

"Exceptin'  sometimes  amongst  church- 
members,"  said  Parson  Jones. 

"Mais"  said  the  seductive  St.-Ange, 
"Miguel  and  Joe  is  church-member' — cer- 

tainlee!     They  love  to  talk  about  rilligion. 
[39] 


'POSSON    JONE' 

Come  at  Miguel  and  talk  about  some  rillig- 
ion.  I  am  nearly  expire  for  my  coffee." 

Parson  Jones  took  his  hat  from  beneath 
his  chair  and  rose  up. 

"  Jools,"  said  the  weak  giant,  "I  ought  to 
be  in  church  right  now." 

"Mais,  the  church  is  right  yond'  at 
Miguel,  yes.  Ah!"  continued  St.-Ange,  as 
they  descended  the  stairs,  "I  thing  every 
man  muz  have  the  rilligion  he  like  the  bez — 
me,  I  like  the  Catholique  rilligion  the  bez — 
for  me  it  is  the  bez.  Every  man  will  sure  go 
to  heaven  if  he  like  his  rilligion  the  bez." 

"Jools,"  said  the  West-Floridian,  laying 
his  great  hand  tenderly  upon  the  Creole's 
shoulder,  as  they  stepped  out  upon  the  ban 
quette,  "do  you  think  you  have  any  shore 
hopes  of  heaven  ?  " 

"Yaas!"  replied  St.-Ange;  "I  am  sure- 
[40] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

sure.  I  thing  everybody  will  go  to  heaven. 
I  thing  you  will  go,  et  I  thing  Miguel  will  go, 
et  Joe — everybody,  I  thing — -mais,  h-of  course, 
not  if  they  not  have  been  christen'.  Even 
I  thing  some  niggers  will  go.5 

"  Jools,"  said  the  parson,  stopping  in  his 
walk — "Jools,  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  nig- 
gah." 

"You  will  not  loose  him.  With  Baptiste 
he  cannot  ged  loose." 

But  Colossus's  master  was  not  reassured. 

"Now,"  said  he,  still  tarrying,  "this  is  jest 
the  way ;  had  I  of  gone  to  church — 

"Posson  Jone',"  said  Jules. 

"What?" 

" I  tell  you.    WTe  goin'  to  church! " 

"Will  you?"  asked  Jones,  joyously. 

" Allons,  come  along,"  said  Jules,  taking 
his  elbow. 

[41] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

They  walked  down  the  Rue  Chartres, 
passed  several  corners,  and  by  and  by  turned 
into  a  cross  street.  The  parson  stopped  an 
instant  as  they  were  turning,  and  looked 
back  up  the  street. 

"Wat  you  lookin'?"  asked  his  com 
panion. 

"I  thought  I  saw  Colossus,"  answered  the 
parson,  with  an  anxious  face;  "I  reckon 
'twa'n't  him,  though."  And  they  went  on. 

The  street  they  now  entered  was  a  very 
quiet  one.  The  eye  of  any  chance  passer 
would  have  been  at  once  drawn  to  a  broad, 
heavy,  white  brick  edifice  on  the  lower  side 
of  the  way,  with  a  flag-pole  standing  out  like 
a  bowsprit  from  one  of  its  great  window's, 
and  a  pair  of  lamps  hanging  before  a  large 
closed  entrance.  It  was  a  theatre,  sub-let  to 
gamblers.  At  this  morning  hour  all  was  still, 


"POSSON    JONE' 

and  the  only  sign  of  life  was  a  knot  of  little 
barefoot  girls  gathered  within  its  narrow 
shade  and  each  carrying  an  infant  relative. 
Into  this  place  the  parson  and  M.  St.-Ange 
entered,  the  little  nurses  jumping  up  from 
the  sills  to  let  them  pass  in. 

A  half-hour  may  have  passed.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  the  whole  juvenile  company 
were  laying  alternate  eyes  and  ears  to  the 
chinks,  to  gather  what  they  could  of  an  in 
teresting  quarrel  going  on  within. 

"I  did  not,  saw!  I  given  you  no  cause  of 
offence,  saw!  It's  not  so,  saw!  Mister  Jools 
simply  mistaken  the  house,  thinkin'  it  was 
a  Sabbath-school!  No  such  thing,  saw; 
I  ain't  bound  to  bet!  Yes,  I  kin  git  out! 
Yes,  without  bettin'!  I  hev  a  right  to  my 
opinion;  I  reckon  I'm  a  white  man,  saw! 
No,  saw!  I  on'y  said  I  didn't  think  you 
[43] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

could  get  the  game  on  them  cards.  'Sno 
such  thing,  saw !  I  do  not  know  how  to  play ! 
I  wouldn't  hev  a  roscal's  money  ef  I  should 
win  it !  Shoot,  ef  you  dare !  You  can  kill  me, 
but  you  can't  scare  me!  No,  I  shayn't  bet! 
I'll  die  first!  Yes,  saw;  Mr.  Jools  can  bet 
for  me  if  he  admires  to;  I  ain't  his  mostah." 

Here  the  speaker  seemed  to  direct  his 
words  to  St.-Ange. 

"Saw,  I  don't  understand  you,  saw. 
I  never  said  I'd  loan  you  money  to  bet  on  me. 
I  didn't  suspicion  this  from  you,  saw.  No, 
I  won't  take  any  mo'  lemonade;  it's  the 
most  notorious  stuff  I  ever  drank,  saw!" 

M.  St.-Ange's  replies  were  in  falsetto  and 
not  without  effect;  for  presently  the  parson's 
indignation  and  anger  began  to  melt.  "Don't 
ask  me,  Jools,  I  can't  help  you.  It's  no  use; 
it's  a  matter  of  conscience  with  me,  Jools." 
[44] 


m  * 


"Shoot,  of  you  dare!     You  can  kill  mo,  but  you  can't  scaro  mo!  " 


"POSSON     JONE' 

"Mais  oui!  'tis  a  matt'  of  conscien'  wid 
me,  the  same." 

"But,  Jools,  the  money's  none  o'  mine, 
nohow;  it  belongs  to  Smyrny,  you  know." 

"If  I  could  make  juz  one  bet,"  said  the 
persuasive  St.-Ange,  "I  would  leave  this 
place,  fas'-fas',  yes.  If  I  had  thing — mais 
I  did  not  soupspicion  this  from  you,  Posson 
Jone'— 

"Don't,  Jools,  don't!" 

"No!    Posson  Jone'." 
You're  bound  to  win?"  said  the  parson, 
ering. 

"  Mais  certainement !  But  it  is  not  to  win 
that  I  want;  'tis  my  conscien' — my  honor!" 

"Well,  Jools,  I  hope  I'm  not  a-doin'  no 
wrong.  I'll  loan  you  some  of  this  money  if 
you  say  you'll  come  right  out  'thout  takin' 
your  winnin's." 

[45] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

All  was  still.  The  peeping  children  could 
see  the  parson  as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his 
breast  pocket.  There  it  paused  a  moment 
in  bewilderment,  then  plunged  to  the  bottom. 
It  came  back  empty,  and  fell  lifelessly  at  his 
side.  His  head  dropped  upon  his  breast,  his 
eyes  were  for  a  moment  closed,  his  broad 
palms  were  lifted  and  pressed  against  his 
forehead,  a  tremor  seized  him,  and  he  fell 
all  in  a  lump  to  the  floor.  The  children  ran 
off  with  their  infant  loads,  leaving  Jules 
St.-Ange  swearing  by  all  his  deceased  rela 
tives,  first  to  Miguel  and  Joe,  and  then  to  the 
lifted  parson,  that  he  did  not  know  what  had 
become  of  the  money  "except  if"  the  black 
man  had  got  it. 

In  the  rear  of  ancient  New  Orleans,  be 
yond  the  sites  of  the  old  rampart,  (a  trio  of 
[46] 


"POSSON     JONE 

Spanish  forts,)  where  the  town  has  since 
sprung  up  and  grown  old,  green  with  all  the 
luxuriance  of  the  wild  Creole  summer,  lay  the 
Congo  Plains.  Here  stretched  the  canvas 
of  the  historic  Cayetano,  who  Sunday  after 
Sunday  sowed  the  sawdust  for  his  circus-ring. 

But  to-day  the  great  showman  had  fallen 
short  of  his  printed  promise.  The  hurricane 
had  come  by  night,  and  with  one  fell  swash 
had  made  an  irretrievable  sop  of  everything. 
The  circus  trailed  away  its  bedraggled  mag 
nificence,  and  the  ring  was  cleared  for  the 
bull. 

Then  the  sun  seemed  to  come  out  and 
work  for  the  people.  "See,"  said  the  Span 
iards,  looking  up  at  the  glorious  sky  with  its 
great  white  fleets  drawn  off  upon  the  hori 
zon — "see — heaven  smiles  upon  the  bull 
fight!" 

[47] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

In  the  high  upper  seats  of  the  rude  amphi 
theatre  sat  the  gayly  decked  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  Gascons,  from  the  metairies 
along  the  Ridge,  and  the  chattering  Spanisli 
women  of  the  Market,  their  shining  hair 
unbonneted  to  the  sun.  Next  below  were 
their  husbands  and  lovers  in  Sunday  blouses, 
milkmen,  butchers,  bakers,  black-bearded 
fishermen,  Sicilian  fruiterers,  swarthy  Portu 
guese  sailors  in  little  woollen  caps,  and 
strangers  of  the  graver  sort;  mariners  of 
England,  Germany,  and  Holland.  The  low 
est  seats  were  full  of  trappers,  smugglers, 
Canadian  voyageurs,  drinking  and  singing; 
Americains,  too — more's  the  shame — from 
the  upper  rivers — who  will  not  keep  their 
seats,  who  ply  the  bottle,  and  who  will  get 
home  by  and  by  and  tell  how  wicked  Sodom 
is;  broad-brimmed,  silver-braided  Mexicans, 
[48] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

also,  with  their  copper  cheeks  and  bat's  eyes, 
and  their  tinkling  spurred  heels.  Yonder,  in 
that  quieter  section,  are  the  quadroon  women 
in  their  black  lace  shawls — and  there  is  Bap- 
tiste;  and  below  them  are  the  turbaned 
black  women,  and  there  is — but  he  vanishes 
— Colossus. 

The  afternoon  is  advancing,  yet  the  sport, 
though  loudly  demanded,  does  not  begin. 
The  Americains  grow  derisive  and  find  pas 
time  in  gibes  and  raillery.  They  mock  the 
various  Latins  with  their  national  inflections, 
and  answer  their  scowls  with  laughter. 
Some  of  the  more  aggressive  shout  pretty 
French  greetings  to  the  women  of  Gascony, 
and  one  bargeman,  amid  peals  of  applause, 
stands  on  a  seat  and  hurls  a  kiss  to  the 
quadroons.  The  mariners  of  England, 
Germany,  and  Holland,  as  spectators,  like 
[49] 


'POSSON     JONE' 

the  fun,  while  the  Spaniards  look  back  and 
cast  defiant  imprecations  upon  their  perse 
cutors.  Some  Gascons,  with  timely  caution, 
pick  their  women  out  and  depart,  running  a 
terrible  fire  of  gallantries. 

In  hope  of  truce,  a  new  call  is  raised  for 
the  bull:  "The  bull,  the  bull!— hush!" 

In  a  tier  near  the  ground  a  man  is  stand 
ing  and  calling — standing  head  and  shoul 
ders  above  the  rest — calling  in  the  Ameri- 
caine  tongue.  Another  man,  big  and  red, 
named  Joe,  and  a  handsome  little  Creole  in 
elegant  dress  and  full  of  laughter,  wish  to 
stop  him,  but  the  flat-boatmen,  ha-ha-ing 
and  cheering,  will  not  suffer  it.  Ah,  through 
some  shameful  knavery  of  the  men  into 
whose  hands  he  has  fallen,  he  is  drunk! 
Even  the  women  can  see  that;  and  now  he 
throws  his  arms  wildly  and  raises  his  voice 
[50] 


"POSSON    JONE'" 

until  the  whole  great  circle  hears  it.    He  is 
preaching ! 

Ah!  kind  Lord,  for  a  special  providence 
now!  The  men  of  his  own  nation — men 
from  the  land  of  the  open  English  Bible  and 
temperance  cup  and  song  are  cheering  him 
on  to  mad  disgrace.  And  now  another  call 
for  the  appointed  sport  is  drowned  by  the 
flat-boatmen  singing  the  ancient  tune  of 
Mear.  You  can  hear  the  words— 

"  Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  soul  " 

—From  ribald  lips  and  throats  turned  brazen 
with  laughter,  from  singers  who  toss  their 
hats  aloft  and  roll  in  their  seats  the  chorus 
swells  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  thousand 
brogans — 

"  He  used  to  wear  an  old  gray  coat 
All  buttoned  down  before.  " 
[51] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

A  ribboned  man  in  the  arena  is  trying  to  be 
heard,  and  the  Latins  raise  one  mighty  cry 
for  silence.  The  big  red  man  gets  a  hand 
over  the  parson's  mouth,  and  the  ribboned 
man  seizes  his  moment. 

"They  have  been  endeavoring  for  hours," 
he  says,  "to  draw  the  terrible  animals  from 
their  dens,  but  such  is  their  strength  and 
fierceness,  that — 

His  voice  is  drowned.  Enough  has  been 
heard  to  warrant  the  inference  that  the 
beasts  cannot  be  whipped  out  of  the  storm- 
drenched  cages  to  which  menagerie  life  and 
long  starvation  have  attached  them,  and 
from  the  roar  of  indignation  the  man  of 
ribbons  flies.  The  noise  increases.  Men  are 
standing  up  by  hundreds,  and  women  are 
imploring  to  be  let  out  of  the  turmoil.  All 
at  once,  like  the  bursting  of  a  dam,  the  whole 
[521 


'POSSON     JONE' 

mass  pours  down  into  the  ring.  They  sweep 
across  the  arena  and  over  the  showman's 
barriers.  Miguel  gets  a  frightful  trampling. 
Who  cares  for  gates  or  doors  ?  They  tear  the 
beasts'  houses  bar  from  bar,  and,  laying  hold 
of  the  gaunt  buffalo,  drag  him  forth  by  feet, 
ears,  and  tail;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  melee, 
still  head  and  shoulders  above  all,  wilder, 
with  the  cup  of  the  wicked,  than  any  beast, 
is  the  man  of  God  from  the  Florida  parishes ! 
In  his  arms  he  bore— and  all  the  people 
shouted  at  once  when  they  saw  it — the  tiger. 
He  had  lifted  it  high  up  with  its  back  to  his 
breast,  his  arms  clasped  under  its  shoulders; 
the  wretched  brute  had  curled  up  caterpillar- 
wise,  writh  its  long  tail  against  its  belly,  and 
through  its  filed  teeth  grinned  a  fixed  and 
impotent  wrath.  And  Parson  Jones  was 
shouting : 

[53] 


'POSSON     JONE' 

"The  tiger  and  the  buffle,r  shell  lay  down 
together!  You  dah  to  say  they  shayn't  and 
I'll  comb  you  with  this  varmint  from  head 
to  foot!  The  tiger  and  the  huffier  shell  lay 
down  together.  They  sJiell.  Now,  you, 
Joe!  Behold!  I  am  here  to  see  it  done. 
The  lion  and  the  buffler  shell  lay  down 
together!" 

Mouthing  these  words  again  and  again, 
the  parson  forced  his  way  through  the  surge 
in  the  wake  of  the  buffalo.  This  creature 
the  Latins  had  secured  by  a  lariat  over  his 
head,  and  were  dragging  across  the  old  ram 
part  and  into  a  street  of  the  city. 

The  northern  races  were  trying  to  prevent, 
and  there  was  pommelling  and  knocking 
down,  cursing  and  knife  drawing,  until  Jules 
St.-Ange  was  quite  carried  away  with  the 
fun,  laughed,  clapped  his  hands,  and  swore 
[54] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

with  delight,  and  ever  kept  close  to  the  gal 
lant  parson. 

Joe,  contrariwise,  counted  all  this  child's 
play  an  interruption.  He  had  corne  to  find 
Colossus  and  the  money.  In  an  unlucky 
moment  he  made  bold  to  lay  hold  of  the 
parson,  but  a  piece  of  the  broken  barriers  in 
the  hands  of  a  flat-boatman  felled  him  to 
the  sod,  the  terrible  crowd  swept  over  him, 
the  lariat  was  cut,  and  the  giant  parson 
hurled  the  tiger  upon  the  buffalo's  back.  In 
another  instant  both  brutes  were  dead  at  the 
hands  of  the  mob;  Jones  was  lifted  from  his 
feet,  and  prating  of  Scripture  and  the  mil 
lennium,  of  Paul  at  Ephesus  and  Daniel  in 
the  "buffler's"  den,  was  borne  aloft  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  huzzaing  Americains.  Half 
an  hour  later  he  was  sleeping  heavily  on  the 
floor  of  a  cell  in  the  calaboza. 
[55] 


'POSSON    JONE' 

When  Parson  Jones  awoke,  a  bell  was 
somewhere  tolling  for  midnight.  Somebody 
was  at  the  door  of  his  cell  with  a  key.  The 
lock  grated,  the  door  swung,  the  turnkey 
looked  in  and  stepped  back,  and  a  ray  of 
moonlight  fell  upon  M.  Jules  St.-Ange.  The 
prisoner  sat  upon  the  empty  shackles  and 
ring-bolt  in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

"Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  the  visitor, 
softly. 

"O  Jools!" 

"Mais,  w'at  de  matter,  Posson  Jone'?" 

"My  sins,  Jools,  my  sins!" 

"Ah!  Posson  Jone',  is  that  something  to 
cry,  because  a  man  get  sometime  a  litt'  bit 
intoxicate  ?  Mais,  if  a  man  keep  all  the  time  in 
toxicate,  I  think  that  is  again'  the  conscien'. " 

"Jools,  Jools,  your  eyes  is  darkened — oh! 
Jools,  where's  my  pore  old  niggah?" 
[56] 


A  ray  of  moonlight  fell  upon  M.  Jules  St.-Ange 


"POSSON     JONE' 

"Posson  Jone',  never  mine;  he  is  wid 
Baptiste." 

"Where?" 

"I  don'  know  w'ere — metis  he  is  wid  Bap 
tiste.  Baptiste  is  a  beautiful  to  take  care  of 
somebody." 

"Is  he  as  good  as  you,  Jools  ?"  asked  Par 
son  Jones,  sincerely. 

Jules  was  slightly  staggered. 

"You  know,  Posson  Jone',  you  know, 
a  nigger  cannot  be  good  as  a  w'ite  man— 
mais  Baptiste  is  a  good  nigger." 

The  parson  moaned  and  dropped  his  chin 
into  his  hands. 

"I  was  to  of  left  for  home  to-morrow, 
sun  up,  on  the  Isabella  schooner.  Pore 
Smyrny!"  He  sighed  deeply. 

"Posson  Jone',"  said  Jules,  leaning  against 
the  wall  and  smiling,  "  I  swear  you  is  the  moz 
[57] 


'POSSON    JONE'" 

* 
funny  man  what  I  never  see.    If  I  was  you  I 

would  say,  me,  'Ah!  'ow  I  am  lucky!  the 
money  I  los',  it  was  not  mine,  anyhow! '  My 
faith!  shall  a  man  make  hisse'f  to  be  the 
more  sorry  because  the  money  he  los'  is  not 
his?  Me,  I  would  say,  'it  is  a  specious 
providence. 

"Ah!  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  he  contin 
ued,  "you  make  a  so  droll  sermon  ad  the  .• 
bull-ring.  Ha!  ha!  I  swear  I  thing  you  can* 
make  money  to  preach  thad  sermon  many 
time  ad  the  theatre  St.  Philippe.  Hah!  you 
is  the  moz  brave  dat  I  never  see,  mais  ad  the 
same  time  the  moz  rilligious  man.  Where 
I'm  goin'  to  fin'  one  priest  to  make  like  dat  ? 
Mais,  why  you  can't  cheer  up  an'  be  'appy  ? 
Me,  if  I  should  be  miserabl'  like  dat  I  would 
kill  meself." 

The  countryman  only  shook  his  head. 
[58] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

"Bicn,  Posson  Jone',  I  have  the  so  good 
news  for  you." 

The  prisoner  looked  up  with  eager  in 
quiry. 

"Laz'  evening  when  they  lock'  you,  I 
come  right  off  at  M.  De  Blanc's  house  to  get 
you  let  out  of  the  calaboose;  M.  De  Blanc 
he  is  the  judge.  So  soon  I  was  entering — 
'Ah!  Jules,  my  boy,  juz  the  man  to  make 
complete  the  game !'  Posson  Jone',  it  was 
a  specious  providence!  I  win  in  t'ree  hours 
more  dan  six  hundred  dollah'!  Look."  He 
produced  a  mass  of  bank-notes,  bons,  and 
due-bills. 

"And  you  got  the  pass?"  asked  the  par 
son,  regarding  the  money  with  a  strange 
sadness. 

"It  is  here;  it  take  the  effect  so  soon  the 
daylight." 

[59] 


'POSSON     JONE'" 

"Jools,  my  friend,  your  kindness  is  in 
vain." 

The  Creole's  face  became  a  perfect  blank. 

"Because,"  said  the  parson,  "for  two 
reasons:  firstly,  I  have  broken  the  laws,  and 
ought  to  stand  the  penalty;  and  secondly — 
you  must  really  excuse  me,  Jools,  you  know, 
but  the  pass  has  been  got  onf airly,  I'm 
afeerd.  You  told  the  judge  I  was  innocent; 
and  in  neither  case  it  don't  become  a  Chris 
tian  (which  I  hope  I  can  still  say  I  am  one) 
to  'do  evil  that  good  may  come.'  I  muss 
stay." 

M.  St.-Ange  stood  up  aghast,  and  for  a 
moment  speechless,  at  this  exhibition  of 
moral  heroism ;  but  an  artifice  was  presently 
hit  upon.  "Mais,  Posson  Jone'!" — in  his 
old  falsetto — "de  order  — you  cannot  read  it, 
it  is  in  French — compel  you  to  go  h-out,  sir!" 
[60] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

"Is  that  so?"  cried  the  parson,  bounding 
up  with  radiant  face — "is  that  so,  Jools?" 

The  young  man  nodded,  smiling;  but, 
though  he  smiled,  the  fountain  of  his  tender 
ness  was  opened.  He  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  as  the  parson  knelt  in  prayer,  and  even 
whispered  "Hail  Mary,"  etc.,  quite  through, 
twice  over. 

Morning  broke  in  summer  glory  upon 
a  cluster  of  villas  behind  the  city,  nestled  un- 
under  live-oaks  and  magnolias  on  the  banks 
of  a  deep  bayou,  and  known  as  Suburb  St. 
Jean. 

With  the  first  beam  came  the  West-Florid- 
ian  and  the  Creole  out  upon  the  bank  below 
the  village.  Upon  the  parson's  arm  hung 
a  pair  of  antique  saddle-bags.  Baptiste 
limped  wearily  behind;  both  his  eyes  were 
encircled  with  broad  blue  rings,  and  one 
[61] 


"POSSON     JONE" 

cheek-bone  bore  the  official  impress  of  every 
knuckle  of  Colossus's  left  hand.  The 
"beautiful  to  take  care  of  somebody"  had 
lost  his  charge.  At  mention  of  the  negro  he 
became  wild,  and,  half  in  English,  half  in  the 
"gumbo"  dialect,  said  murderous  things. 
Intimidated  by  Jules  to  calmness,  he  became 
able  to  speak  confidently  on  one  point;  he 
could,  would,  and  did  swear  that  Colossus 
had  gone  home  to  the  Florida  parishes;  he 
was  almost  certain;  in  fact,  he  thought  so. 

There  was  a  clicking  of  pulleys  as  the 
three  appeared  upon  the  bayou's  margin, 
and  Baptiste  pointed  out,  in  the  deep  shadow 
of  a  great  oak,  the  Isabella,  moored  among 
the  bulrushes,  and  just  spreading  her  sails 
for  departure.  Moving  down  to  where  she 
lay,  the  parson  and  his  friend  paused  on  the 
bank,  loath  to  say  farewell. 
[62] 


"  POSSON     JONE' 

"O  Jools!"  said  the  parson,  "supposin' 
Colossus  ain't  gone  home!  ()  Jools,  if  you'll 
look  him  out  for  me,  I'll  never  forget  you— 
I'll  never  forget  you,  nohow,  Jools.  No, 
Jools,  I  never  will  believe  he  taken  that 
money.  Yes,  I  know  all  niggahs  will  steal" 
—he  set  foot  upon  the  gang-plank — "but 
Colossus  wouldn't  steal  from  me.  Good-by." 

"Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  St.-Ange, 
putting  his  hand  on  the  parson's  arm  with 
genuine  affection,  "hoi*  on.  You  see  dis 
money — w'at  I  win  las'  night?  Well,  I  AVJH 
it  by  a  specious  providence,  ain't  it  ?" 

"There's  no  tellin',"  said  the  humbled 
Jones.  "Providence 

*  Moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform.' '; 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Creole,  "c'est  very  true. 
I  ged    dis  money   in  the  mysterieuze  way. 
[63] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

Mais,  if  I  keep  dis  money,  you  know  where 
it  goin'  be  to-night  ?" 

"I  really  can't  say,"  replied  the  parson. 

"Goiri'  to  the  dev',"  said  the  sweetly 
smiling  young  man. 

The  schooner  captain,  leaning  against  the 
shrouds,  and  even  Baptiste,  laughed  outright. 

"O  Jools,  you  mustn't!" 

"Well,  den,  w'at  I  shall  do  wid  it?" 

"  Any  thing !"  answered  the  parson;  "bet 
ter  donate  it  away  to  some  poor  man — 

"Ah!  Misty  Posson  Jone',  dat  is  w'at  I 
want.  You  los'  five  hondred  dollah' — 'twas 
my  fault." 

"No,  itwa'n't,  Jools." 

"Mais,  it  was!** 

"No!" 

"It  was  my  fault!  I  swear  it  was  my 
fault!  Mais,  here  is  five  hondred  dollah'; 
[64] 


'POSSON    JONE' 

I  wish  you  shall  take  it.  Here !  I  don't  got 
no  use  for  money. — Oh,  my  faith!  Posson 
Jone',  you  must  not  begin  to  cry  some  more." 

Parson  Jones  was  choked  with  tears. 
When  he  found  voice  he  said : 

"O  Jools,  Jools,  Jools!  my  pore,  noble, 
dear,  misguidened  friend !  ef  you  hed  of  hed 
a  Christian  raisin' !  May  the  Lord  show  you 
your  errors,  better'n  I  kin,  and  bless  you  for 
your  good  intentions — oh,  no !  I  cay  n't  touch 
that  money  with  a  ten-foot  pole;  it  wa'n't 
rightly  got;  you  must  really  excuse  me,  my 
dear  friend,  but  I  cayn't  touch  it." 

St.-Ange  was  petrified. 

"Good-by,  dear  Jools,"  continued  the 
parson.  "I'm  in  the  Lord's  haynds,  and  he's 
very  merciful,  which  I  hope  and  trust  you'll 
find  it  out.  Good-by ! " — the  schooner  swung 
slowly  off  before  the  breeze — "good-by!" 
[65] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

St.-Ange  roused  himself. 

"Posson  Jone'!  make  me  hany'ow  dis 
promise:  you  never,  never,  never  will  come 
back  to  New  Orleans." 

"Ah,  Jools,  the  Lord  willin',  I'll  never 
leave  home  again!" 

"All  right!"  cried  the  Creole;  "I  thing 
He's  willin'.  Adieu,  Posson  Jone'.  My 
faith'!  you  are  the  so  fighting  an'  moz  ril- 
ligious  man  as  I  never  saw !  Adieu !  Adieu ! " 

Baptiste  uttered  a  cry  and  presently  ran 
by  his  master  toward  the  schooner,  his 
hands  full  of  clods. 

St.-Ange  looked  just  in  time  to  see  the  sa 
ble  form  of  Colossus  of  Rhodes  emerge  from 
the  vessel's  hold,  and  the  pastor  of  Smyrna 
and  Bethesda  seize  him  in  his  embrace. 

"O  Colossus!  you  outlandish  old  niggah! 
Thank  the  Lord!    Thank  the  Lord!" 
[66] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

The  little  Creole  almost  wept.  He  ran 
down  the  tow-path,  laughing  and  swearing, 
and  making  confused  allusion  to  the  en 
tire  personnel  and  furniture  of  the  lower 
regions. 

By  odd  fortune,  at  the  moment  that  St.- 
Ange  further  demonstrated  his  delight  by 
tripping  his  mulatto  into  a  bog,  the  schooner 
came  brushing  along  the  reedy  bank  with 
a  graceful  curve,  the  sails  flapped,  and  the 
crew  fell  to  poling  her  slowly  along. 

Parson  Jones  was  on  the  deck,  kneeling 
once  more  in  prayer.  His  hat  had  fallen 
before  him;  behind  him  knelt  his  slave.  In 
thundering  tones  he  was  confessing  himself 
"a  plumb  fool,"  from  whom  "the  conceit  had 
been  jolted  out,"  and  who  had  been  made  to 
see  that  even  his  "  nigger  had  the  longest  head 
of  the  two." 

[67] 


"POSSON     JONE'" 

Colossus  clasped  his  hands  and  groaned. 

The  parson  prayed  for  a  contrite  heart. 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  Colossus. 

The  master  acknowledged  countless  mer 
cies. 

"Dat's  so!"  cried  the  slave. 

The  master  prayed  that  they  might  still 
be  "piled  on." 

"Glory!"  cried  the  black  man,  clapping 
his  hands;  "pile  on!" 

"An*  now,"  continued  the  parson,  "bring 
this  pore,  backslidin'  jackace  of  a  parson 
and  this  pore  ole  fool  niggah  back  to  thar 
home  in  peace!" 

"Pray  fo'  de  money!"  called  Colossus. 

But  the  parson  prayed  for  Jules. 

"Pray  fo'  de  money!"  repeated  the  negro. 

"And  oh,  give  thy  servant  back  that  there 

lost  money!" 

[68] 


"POSSON    JONE' 

Colossus  rose  stealthily,  and  tiptoed  by 
his  still  shouting  master.  St.-Ange,  the  cap 
tain,  the  crew,  gazed  in  silent  wonder  at  the 
strategist.  Pausing  but  an  instant  over  the 
master's  hat  to  grin  an  acknowledgment  of 
his  beholders'  speechless  interest,  he  softly 
placed  in  it  the  faithfully  mourned  and  hon 
estly  prayed-for  Smyrna  fund;  then,  saluted 
by  the  gesticulative,  silent  applause  of  St.- 
Ange  and  the  schooner  men,  he  resumed  his 
first  attitude  behind  his  roaring  master. 

"Amen!"  cried  Colossus,  meaning  to 
bring  him  to  a  close. 

"Onworthy  though  I  be ' '  cried  Jones. 

"Amen!"  reiterated  the  negro. 

"A-a-amen!"  said  Parson  Jones. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  stooping  to  take 
up  his  hat,  beheld  the  well-known  roll.  As 
one  stunned  he  gazed  for  a  moment  upon  his 
[69] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

slave,  who  still  knelt  with  clasped  hands  and 
rolling  eyeballs;  but  when  he  became  aware 
of  the  laughter  and  cheers  that  greeted  him 
from  both  deck  and  shore,  he  lifted  eyes  and 
hands  to  heaven,  and  cried  like  the  veriest 
babe.  And  when  he  looked  at  the  roll  again, 
and  hugged  and  kissed  it,  St.-Ange  tried  to 
raise  a  second  shout,  but  choked,  and  the 
crew  fell  to  their  poles. 

And  now  up  runs  Baptiste,  covered  with 
slime,  and  prepares  to  cast  his  projectiles. 
The  first  one  fell  wide  of  the  mark;  the 
schooner  swung  round  into  a  long  reach  of 
water,  where  the  breeze  was  in  her  favor; 
another  shout  of  laughter  drowned  the  male 
dictions  of  the  muddy  man;  the  sails  filled; 
Colossus  of  Rhodes,  smiling  and  bowing  as 
hero  of  the  moment,  ducked  as  the  main 
boom  swept  round,  and  the  schooner,  lean- 
[701 


Colossus  rose  stealthily  and  tiptoed  by  his  still  shouting 
master 


'POSSON     JONE' 

ing  slightly  to  the  pleasant  influence,  rustled 
a  moment  over  the  bulrushes,  and  then  sped 
far  away  down  the  rippling  bayou. 

M.  Jules  St.-Ange  stood  long,  gazing  at 
the  receding  vessel  as  it  now  disappeared, 
now  reappeared  beyond  the  tops  of  the  high 
undergrowth;  but,  when  an  arm  of  the  for 
est  hid  it  finally  from  sight,  he  turned  town- 
ward,  followed  by  that  fagged-out  spaniel, 
his  servant,  saying,  as  he  turned,  "Bap- 
tiste." 

"Miche?" 

"You  know  w'at  I  goin'  do  wid  dis 
money  ?" 

"  Non,  miche." 

"Well,  you  can  strike  me  dead  if  I  don't 
goin'  to  pay  hall  my  debts!  Allonsl  " 

He  began  a  merry  little  song  to  the  effect 
that  his  sweetheart  was  a  wine-bottle,  and 
[71] 


"POSSON     JONE' 

master  and  man,  leaving  care  behind,  re 
turned  to  the  picturesque  Rue  Royale.  The 
ways  of  Providence  are  indeed  strange.  In 
all  Parson  Jones's  after  life,  amid  the  many 
painful  reminiscences  of  his  visit  to  the  City 
of  the  Plain,  the  sweet  knowledge  was  with 
held  from  him  that  by  the  light  of  the  Chris 
tian  virtue  that  shone  from  him  even  in  his 
great  fall,  Jules  St.-Ange  arose,  and  went  to 
his  father  an  honest  man. 


[72] 


PERK  RAPHAEL 


\ 


PERE  RAPHAEL 

WHEN   Jules  St.-Ange    said    to 
Parson    Jones    in    the    cala 
boose,  "M.  De  Blanc,  he  is 
the  judge,"  he — abridged.     The  judge  was 
M.  Rene  De  Blanc  St.-Ange — his  father. 

The  St.-Ange  house  stood  on  the  swamp 
side  of  the  Rue  Royale,  next  to  a  corner 
of  that  very  intersection  with  Conti  Street 
where  Jones  and  Jules  first  met.  It  opened 
on  the  sidewalk  and  had  at  its  ground  floor, 
extending  from  the  street-door  steps  on  its 
right  to  the  porte-cochere  on  the  left,  a  nar 
row,  hooded  balcony  masked  by  a  lattice 
along  its  sidewalk  face  and  across  its  porte- 
cochere  end.  In  the  great  batten  gate  of  the 
porte-cochere  was  the  usual  small  one  for 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

servants,  and  close  to  it,  in  the  balcony  lattice, 
a  very  small  hinged  window.  Into  this  bal 
cony  let  also  the  long  French  windows  of  the 
drawing-room.  Its  unlatticed  end,  by  the 
front  door,  was  fair  with  potted  flowers,  and 
through  the  railing  there  one  might  pass  to 
the  steps  and  the  street. 

The  adjoining  edifice  on  the  right,  at  the 
corner,  was  a  prim  affair  of  whose  sort  one 
was  a  great  plenty — a  gambling-house. 
Happily  its  main  entrance  was  on  its  broader 
face,  around  in  Conti  Street,  where  it  called 
itself  a  theatre.  Let  us  not  be  intolerant;  in 
the  judge's  own  house  there  was  lively  card- 
playing  every  evening,  and  few  could  sur 
pass  the  brilliancy  of  his  own  betting. 

"What  harm  is  that  betting,"  asked  the 
judge,  "if  the  game  is  fair?  In  one's  own 
domiceel,  with  fran',"  (friends,)  "ah!  think! 
[76] 


P  E  R  E     R  A  P  II  A  E  L 

out  of  what  mischieve  it  may  kceb  them— 
on  Sonday  evenings!"  The  judge,  his  fam 
ily  of  three,  and  even  the  servants  were 
more  or  less  addicted  to  what  they  be 
lieved  was  the  English  tongue.  "Lang-uage 
of  the  law  and  those  court',"  he  affably 
apologized,  "and  sinze  appointed  on  the 
bench  'tis  biccome  one  of  my  bad  'abit'." 

He  had  long  been  a  widower,  the  executive 
head  of  his  house  was  his  maiden  sister,  and 
both  facts  may,  in  part,  explain  the  further 
one  that  his  son  was  already  a  bitter  disap 
pointment.  This  very  afternoon  father  and 
son  had  quarrelled  and  the  son  had  been 
forbidden  the  house.  Florestine,  youngest 
of  the  household,  was  really  not  a  relative, 
but  the  orphan  of  the  judge's  old  law  part 
ner.  She  was  as  beautiful  and  intelligent  as 
she  was  high-spirited,  and  the  judge  doted 
[77] 


P  E  II  E     RAP  II  A  E  L 

on  high  spirit.    His  last  hope  for  his  son  lay 
in  the  young  man's  invincible  mettle. 

Within  an  hour  after  the  rupture  there 
came  to  the  house  those  "only  two  really 
dear  and  good  Ame'ricaines  in  the  worl', — 
although  Protestan',  alas!"  —the  widow 
Merrifield  and  her  mild  blue-eyed  daughter 
Abigail.  Mrs.  Merrifield's  call  was  not 
merely  social;  she  had  a  matter  in  hand 
which  she  could  not  with  comfort  carry  di 
rectly  to  the  widower  judge,  albeit  he  was  an 
old  friend  and  her  lawyer;  yet  it  was  a  mat 
ter  in  which,  through  his  sister,  she  must 
seek  his  kind  offices.  For  it  was  one  in 
which  only  a  Creole  gentleman  could  know 
how  to  intervene,  and  she  had  already  made 
bold  to  refer  to  him  M.  Dimitry  Davezac, 
another  and  much  younger  Creole  gentle 
man.  Had  he  called  ?  No  ?  She  was  glad. 
[78] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

Yes,  the  matter  was  about  Abby,  and  when 
the  mother  had  stated  it  to  Mademoiselle 
St.-Ange — while  Florestine  had  led  Abigail 
up-stairs  to  a  conversation  quite  as  private 
and  far  more  intense — and  the  judge's  sister 
came  back  from  the  judge's  part  of  the  house 
and  from  telling  him  the  Davezac  case,  the 
widow's  heart  was  lighter. 

And  now  she  and  Abby  must  fly,  night 
was  so  near.  But  a  coming  storm  thundered 
No!  and  mademoiselle  calmed  them  with 
the  assurance  that  after  the  rain  Florestine's 
maid  Caroline,  with  one  of  the  men-servants, 
should  conduct  them  home,  since  the  judge 
could  not. 

"On  account  those  sore  h-eye',"  he  ex 
plained  with  gallant  regret,  touching  the 
green  pasteboard  shade  which  overhung  his 
brows.  "But,  any'ow,"  he  said,  "that  pain 
[79] 


P E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

of  the  light  is  now  nearly  pass'.  Thangs  be 
to  God,  those  sigs  week'  to  wear  me  that 
accursed  thing,  they  finizh  on  the  day  after 
to-morrow;  then  'tis  my  'ope  to  'ave  the 
more  smooth  tamper." 

The  five  were  yet  standing  together  when 
the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  Caroline  ushered 
in  kind  old  Father  Pierre,  taking  refuge  from 
the  weather.  Good  company  he  was,  and  an 
hour  passed  brightly  while  all  tongues  ran 
nimbly,  and  five  hearts,  not  counting  his,  hid 
each  its  own  distress.  A  second  hour  fol 
lowed,  and  then,  in  a  lull  of  the  tremendous 
rain,  the  good  priest,  laughing  away  the 
judge's  protest,  rose  to  go.  The  Merrifields 
openly  admired  his  masculine  ability  to 
pooh-pooh  the  "must  not"  of  a  friend. 

As  the  two  men  stepped  out  into  the  shel 
tered  balcony  the  judge  had  new  wrenchings 
[80] 


P  E  R  E     R  A  P  II  A  E  L 

of  secret  torture  to  think  of  his  son  out  in 
this  tempest  with  no  better  comfort  than  the 
companionship  of  that  mulatto  scamp  Bap- 
tiste — Caroline's  lover,  by  the  way.  All  at 
once,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  told 
the  bare  fact  of  the  quarrel  and  then  as 
abruptly  changed  the  subject.  "But,  my 
faith!  how  that  Florestine  has  been  to  me 
an  angel  those  sigs  week'  of  those  sore 
h-eye'!  Had  it  not  'ave  been  for  that  Flor 
estine  I  muz'  'ave  suffer'  those  sigs  week' 
without  one  game  of  card'." 

Caroline  stood  at  close  earshot  just  there 
in  the  porte-cochere  wicket,  where  she  had 
come  to  catch  any  stray  news  there  might 
be  of  her  momselle  Florestine's  beloved  Jules 
and  her  own  "triflin"'  Baptiste,  and  she 
heard  even  Father  Pierre's  soft  words. 

"My  fran',"  said  he  after  a  moment  of 
[81] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

meditation,  "you  muz'  not  priv-ent  yo'  son 
to  make  that  h-angel  yo'  daughter." 

Caroline,  in  a  wild  gladness,  listened  on. 
"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  judge,  "my  son  he 
muz'  not  priv-ent  me  to  make  her  my  daugh 
ter.  You  know  well  I  have  swear  that  to  her 
father;  but  also  I  have  swear  him  that  my 
son  shall  not  know  that  till  he  get  her,  and 
he  shall  not  have  her  till  he  is  fit!" 

"  Fit  ?  Ah,  well,  when  tha'  'z  going  to  be  ?  " 

"Father  Pierre,  you  preach  againz'  those 
seven  sin,  eh  ?  You  are  a  pries',  you  got  to 
do  that.  Me,  I  preach  only  againz'  one; 
that  is — debt!  When  my  son  pay  h-all  his 
debt'  he  can  have  Florestine;  but  biftV  ? 
he  shall  not  even  h-ask  for  her." 

"Ah!  but  ad  the  same  time,  so  soon  he 
say--" 

"No;  only  so  soon  he  pay!" 
[82] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Yes;  but  I  thing  if  you  let  me  tell  him 
he  can  have  her  so  soon  he  pay 

"No-o!  When  he  have  pay — that  laz' 
dolla' — /  will  tell  him  if  he  can  have  her  or 
no.  But  he — you  know  what  he  say  ?  He 
tell  me — when  I  be  ready  to  say  he  can  have 
her,  then  he  let  me  know  if  he  goin'  pay  any 
of  those  debt'." 

"But  if  he  'ave  no  money— 

"Let  him  go  to  work,  sacre  tonn' — par 
don!  He  shall  not  one  dollah  risceive  from 
me  till  he  pay  his  debt',  not  to  save  the  life ! 
Well,  good-night — biffo'  it  rain  hard  some 
mo' — Father  Pierre,  a  moment!  I  am  no 
miser,  me—no!  That  hour  my  son  is  finizh' 
to  pay  those  debt',  I  swear  you,  I  give  him 
back  aggain  two  dollah  for  one,  every  dollah 
he  have  pay.  Only  tha'  'z  another  thing  he 
muz'  not  know  biffo'.  Well,  good-night!" 
[83] 


P  E  R  E     R  A  P  II  A  E  L 

The  judge  watched  his  friend  hurry 
away  through  the  wet  lamplight.  The  skies 
poured  again,  and  he  from  the  balcony- 
Caroline  from  the  wicket — fled  into  the 
house.  There  the  Merrifields  were  bowing 
to  the  decree  of  mademoiselle  and  Florestine 
that  they  must  stay  all  night.  Who  could 
argue  against  such  a  pair  backed  by  such  a 
sky?  While  they  asked  the  door-bell  rang, 
and  with  their  hostess  they  started  for  their 
rooms;  but  Florestine  untwined  her  arms 
from  Abigail,  laid  them  on  her  guardian's 
neck,  and  offered  to  stay  with  him  and  once 
more  be  his  eyes.  The  other  three  hurried 
on  up-stairs  and  M.  Davezac  entered. 

How  the  storm-delayed  suitor  had  con 
trived,  after  all,  to  arrive  so  nearly  dry  was 
remarkable,  only  his  feet  being  wet  enough 
to  justify  his  neglect  of  an  invitation  to  be 
[84] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

seated.  Manifestly  he  was  from  the  country 
—the  sugar  country — and  as  haughty  as  he 
was  handsome.  His  dress  was  odd,  even  for 
New  Orleans.  He  wore  buckskin  breeches 
above  his  exquisite  top-boots,  and  a  fawn- 
skin  vest  under  his  voluminous  coat,  giving 
an  effect  half  pioneer,  half  Incroyable.  To 
Florestine,  as  she  sat  close  to  her  guard 
ian's  ear,  he  seemed,  save  Jules,  as  fair  a 
youth  as  she  had  ever  looked  upon.  The 
judge  explained  her  presence  and  his  dis 
figuring  green  shade,  and  at  once  came  to 
business. 

"Madame  MerrifieP  she  say  you  come 
tell  her  you  every  day  passin'  at  Place  Congo, 
by  her  house,  see  her  daughter  up  on  bal- 
conie,  and  fall  in  love  to  her  till  you  cann' 
stan'  that  no  mo',  and  you  want  madame  let 
you  come  make  visite." 
[85] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

The  youth  bowed  grandly:  "Tha'  'z 
w'at  I  want." 

"Yes.  Well,  tha'  'z  maybee  h-all  right, 
if  you  got  some  fran'  want  to  speak  good 
word  for  you." 

"No,  m'sieu'."  The  lover  stiffened  up  till 
he  could  but  just  peer  down  over  his  lower 
lashes:  "h-all  those  fran'  livin'  on  planta 
tion'." 

But  the  judge,  still  wrung  with  the  pain 
of  having  parted  two  lovers,  had  no  inclina 
tion  to  part  another  two.  "Tha'  'z  an  un 
fortunate,"  he  said.  "Any'ow,  me,  I  bil- 
ieve  you  one  gen'leman,  though  I'm  not  ab'e 
to  see  you,  bic-ause  those  sore  h-eye'.  That 
be  pretty  good,  if  you  get  fran'  on  plantation' 
send  sairtifi-cate." 

The  young  man  stood  with  chin  lifted 
and  eyes  dropped.  "M'sieu',  I  bet  you 
[861 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

w'at  you  want;  I  swear  you  w'at  you  want; 
I  fight  you  who  you  want;  but  sairtifi-cafc ? 
-bah!" 

"  But  sit  down.  I  bil-ieve  I  like  you  pretty 
good.  Me,  I  don'  want  you  to  bet,  neither 
to  fight;  only  I  like  you  to  swear  me  one 
thing  the  truth." 

The  petitioner  somewhat  relaxed:  "Verie 
well,  m'sieu';  I  swear  you  the  truth,  I  don' 
care  w'at  it  is." 

"Verie  well.  You  h-owe  some  debt',  I 
sue-pose;  'ow  much  you  h-owe?" 

The  youth  showed  a  faint  smile  of  scorn. 
"Not  one  dollah,"  he  said,  and  hardened  his 
neck  as  he  added,  "even  to  my  papa." 
Catching  signs  of  approval  from  Florestine, 
he  condescended  further:  "  'Tis  to  ezcape 
that  that  I  am  from  home.  I  could  'ave  res' 
yond'  so  long  I  want.  I  am  a  Davezac!" 
[871 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

He  curved  back  until  he  had  to  lean  on  his 
cane.  Florestine  whispered  some  suggestion 
to  the  judge,  who  murmured  his  approval 
of  it. 

"'Sieur  Davezac,"  he  said,  "you  don't 
got  one  father  con-i essor  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  suitor;  but  when  he 
discerned  Florestine's  wish  that  he  would 
show  himself  more  compliant,  he  added : 
"Yes,  m'sieu',  tha'  'z  Pere  Raphael.  I  shall 
send  you  Pere  Raphael  ?  " 

"Pere — eh — Raphael — eh?"  mused  the 
judge.  "Ah,  I  dunno;  I  thing  I'm  maybee 
not  verie  well  acquain'd  with  that  father. 
He's  a  verie  h-old,  that  Pere  Raphael?" 

The  young  man  darkened;  he  suspected 
a  sly  attempt  at  cross-examination.  "No, 
m'sieu';  that  Pere  Raphael  he's  a  verie 

yo'ng-" 

[88] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Ah,  yes;  a  verie  yo'ng,  yes;  but  is  he  not 
a  verie  large  fat  ?  " 

M.  Davezac  bridled.  "No,  m'sieu';  he's 
a  verie  small  thin." 

The  judge  seemed  all  at  once  to  remember: 
"Ah,  yes!  But — exceb'  the  hand'  and  feet, 
eh?" 

The  reply  came  with  a  smile  as  sweet  as 
Florestine's,  yet  distinctly  threatening:  "No, 
m'sieu';  hand'  and  feet  same  size  my  ear', 
and  I  'ope  my  inquisitor  he  don't  find  those 
the  ear'  of  a  jack-ass  ?  " 

Florestine  colored  in  protest,  but  the  judge 
laughed  outright.  "Ah,  no-o!  Send  me 
that  Pere  Raphael.  If  I  like  him  so  well  I 
like  you,  that  be  h-all  right." 

At  a  pause  in  the  storm  the  visitor  bowed 
himself  out.  The  judge  went  to  his  room, 
Florestine  mounted  to  hers.  There  she 
[89] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

learned  from  Caroline  the  glorious  things 
overheard  at  the  porte-cochere  wicket,  and 
between  her  distress  for  the  storm-beaten 
Jules  and  her  vivid  and  highly  practical 
plannings  to  make  use  of  her  dear  guardi 
an's  incautious  revelations,  she  slept  as 
little,  all  night,  as  the  judge  or  his  sister  or 
Madame  Merrifield 

The  Sabbath  began  to  dawn,  the  rain- 
spent  clouds  to  break,  and  Florestine,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  looked  down  into  the 
drenched  and  still  lamplighted  street.  Her 
mind  revolved  an  astounding  plot  she  had 
laid  while  others  slept.  She  was  seeking  its 
moral  justification. 

"To  the  gayest  endurance,"  thought  she, 
"there  is  a  limit.  People  have  no  right  to 
forget  that.  The  judge  has  no  right.  No 
[901 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

more  has  dear  Tante" — as  she  called 
mademoiselle  St.-Ange.  "Yet  only  Caroline 
remembers — ah,  faithful  Caroline!  But 
where  is  she  presently,  that  frightful  lag 
gard  ?  "  The  sufferer  tearfully  smiled. 

She  lingered  at  the  open  casement,  taking 
comfort  in  the  triumphant  rearising  of  the 
storm-swept  city.  Remotely  she  could  hear 
the  shock-headed  Gascons  of  the  French 
Market  whistling  and  singing  and  making 
its  vaults  resound  with  the  ring  of  their  busy 
cleavers. 

"How  happy,"  she  sighed,  "is  the  lot  of 
the  butcher!" 

A  watchman,  with  lantern  and  leather 
helmet,  came  up  the  street  and  gave  three 
slowly  swung  taps  of  his  iron-shod  club  on 
the  corner  curbstone  as  a  signal  to  his  fel 
lows.  "What  a  care-free  life  is  that  of  the 
[91] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

watchman! — as,  likewise," — her  contempla 
tion  taking  in  a  two-wheeled  milk-cart  and 
a  two-wheeled  bread-cart  wildly  tilted  in  the 
mire,  stalled  and  abandoned — "as  likewise 
the  life  of  the  milkman  and  the  baker!" 

The  carts  stood  under  a  lamp  which,  from 
a  great  crane,  overhung  the  two  ways.  An 
hour  earlier  she  had  seen  them  crash  to 
gether,  and  it  had  been  balm  to  her  soul's 
wounds  to  hear  their  drivers  exchange  the 
compliments  customary  on  such  occasions. 
"What  splandid  liberties  are  to  the  milk 
man,  the  bread  man — while  to  the  gayest 
and  moze  girlish  enduranze  there  is  a  limit!" 

A  lamplighter  passed,  quenching  the 
lamps:  "'Ow  'appy  is  the  lot  of  the  lamp 
lighter!" 

Day  broadened;  one  could  read  a  distant 
poster  that  promised  amazing  things  for 
[92] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

Cayetano's  Circus  on  the  Place  Congo. 
The  shops  began  to  open,  yonder  pawnshop 
down  street  on  the  farther  side  not  excepted. 
Men  and  women,  white,  black,  yellow, 
passed  with  market-baskets  on  arm,  and 
here  came  a  slave  maid  as  straight  as  an 
Egyptian  and  as  black  as  Creole  coffee,  with 
a  huge  basket,  heaping  full,  on  her  head. 
At  the  porte-cochere  a  milkman  sent  in  his 
usual  catcall,  and  the  wicket  latch  clinked. 
That  was  Caroline  with  her  pitcher. 

Florestine  saw  the  departing  milkman 
turn  the  upper  street  corner,  but  heard  no 
wicket  reclosed:  "Ah,  Caroline,  murder 
ess!"  she  inwardly  cried,  "do  you  want  to 
bring  yo'  miztrezz  ad  the  door  of  death, 
standing  idle,  doubtlezz,  down  there  in  the 
'alf-open  wicket?" 

She  did  not  guess  that  Baptiste  had  come 
[93] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

upon  the  scene,  nor  could  she  hear  any  note 
of  Caroline's  wary  speech:  "No,  suh!  no 
milk  fo'  you  tell  you  go  an'  come  ag'in;  an' 
no  mo'  sweet-sweetenin'  o'  dis  yeh  gal  tell 
she  know  who  gwine  marry  her  missy!  By 
de  law  I  goes  wid  my  missy,  thaynk  Gawd ! 
an'  I  don'  go  sweetheartenin'  wid  no  French 
yalleh  niggah  to-day  to  be  his  grass-widdeh 
to-morrow!  No,  suh;  you  go  ten  times  fas- 
teh  'n  you  come,  an'  fetch  me  yo'  mawsteh!" 

A  bread  man  filled  the  maid's  arms  with 
loaves  and  hurried  on.  She  gave  one  to  the 
mulatto.  "Here,  pig;  now  fo'  de  Lawd's 
sake,  run  on  an'— 

"Yass,  yass;  but,  Caroline,  y'  ought  to 
see !  All  behine  Rue  Bourgogne  h-overflow ' !" 

"Lawd  'a'  massy!  man,  I  wants  to  see 
Miche  Jules !  I  got  dat  news  fo'  Miche  Jules, 

what " 

[94] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

The  messenger  went,  but  Abigail  Merri- 
field,  slipping  down  through  the  drawing- 
room  and  out  into  the  latticed  balcony, 
heard  Caroline  moan  after  him,  to  see  him 
stop  and  share  his  loaf  with  a  very  black  and 
rustic  old  negro  who  presently  moved  on 
with  him  out  of  sight.  With  the  wicket  shut 
Abigail  breathed  easier,  though  still  in  a 
tremor  of  hope,  longing,  and  self-blame. 

She  was  just  in  time.  Dimitry  Davezac 
came  up  the  far  side  of  the  street  with  the 
high-minded  air  of  a  man  who  could  always 
be  counted  on.  As  he  passed,  as  he  glanced 
across  at  all  the  upper  balconies  of  the 
house,  and  as  he  looked  back  while  he  turned 
riverward  into  the  Rue  Conti,  Abigail,  in 
the  lattice,  as  badly  frightened  as  she  was 
well  hid,  stood  as  still  as  a  stone.  Her  heart 
pounded  like  a  ship  on  a  reef — it  was  a  ship 
[95] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

on  a  reef!  Oh,  what  would  her  mother  say 
if  she  knew  her  child  had  not  the  self-com 
mand,  the  moral  force,  even  to  retreat  into 
the  house  ?  The  question  gave  her  strength 
to  start,  but  at  that  moment  some  one  entered 
the  drawing-room  and  she  could  only  stand 
petrified  again. 

Around  in  the  Rue  Conti  the  young  man's 
steps  flagged — flagged — ceased.  He  laid 
the  head  of  his  cane  to  his  lips.  Then  he 
pressed  smartly  on  again.  This  was  but 
for  a  moment,  however,  and  his  trim  feet 
went  slowly  once  more.  He  stopped, 
turned  half  round,  looked  back,  consulted 
his  watch,  frowned.  All  pure  stage-play; 
he  was  recollecting  nothing  which  he  had 
left  behind  and  must  return  for;  yet  now  he 
went  back.  At  the  same  time  Abigail  was 
having  great  relief  from  her  fears.  Who- 
[96] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

ever  had  come  into  the  drawing-room,  she 
thought,  must  have  gone  out  again,  it  was 
so  still.  Here  at  hand  offered  itself,  more 
over,  a  plausible  task,  and  with  healing 
caresses  she  began  to  reanimate  the  storm- 
torn  flowers  at  the  open  end  of  the  balcony. 
Now  she  soothed  this  one  and  now  that ,  and 
this,  and  this,  and  this;  reaching,  bending, 
drawing  back,  half  straightening,  and  bend 
ing  again,  a  languid  flower  herself,  while 
Dimitry  came  once  more  into  view  and 
moved  down  the  farther  sidewalk. 

"What  odd  chimneys  and  dormer-win 
dows!"  his  manner  implied,  and  she  saw 
him  even  when  he  had  got  entirely  at  her 
back.  Ah,  but  she  should  have  seen  more! 
The  very  flowers,  laughing  through  their 
grateful  tears,  tried  to  cry,  "Look  behind 
you,  benefactress!  Look,  Abigail,  behind 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

you  in  the  balcony!"  For  who  had  unlaw 
fully  slipped  into  this  show  and  was  seeing 
the  whole  performance  free  but  Florestine ! 

Davezac  was  gone,  yet  Abby's  touch  lin 
gered  among  the  flowers,  and  not  until  a 
voice  as  soft  as  their  perfume  called  her  name 
did  she  flash  round  to  stare  and  gasp.  Sud 
denly  her  tears  shone  and  she  clung  to  the 
arm  of  her  friend.  "I  couldn't  sleep.  I 
couldnt  keep  my  room." 

"Ah,  tha'  'z  not  the  fault  of  you.  Tha'  'z 
the  fault  of  Tante  to  give  you  that  room 
behine  yo'  mama,  and  withoud  balconie-e!" 

"Oh,  Florestine,  this  is  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  ever — 

"Did  anything!  Ah,  ha,  ha!  I  billieve 
you,  Abbee;  I  billieve  that,  my  faith!" 

"Oh,  oh!  If  you  could  only  have  told  me 
last  night  what  took  place  b  etween  the  judge 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

and — and   him,   I   might   now  be  honestly 
asleep." 

"Ah,  I  cou'n'  he'p  that.  I  had  to  keep 
me  with  the  judge  till  the  en',  biccause  those 
sore  h-eye'.  Then,  after,  I  cou'n'  come  to 
you  in  that  room  behine.  I  can  tell  you 
now,  but  I  don't  want  tell  you  if  that  goin' 
put  you  as-leep." 

But  Abigail  begged  and  Florestine  told. 

As  she  finished— "Oh,  Florestine,  Flor 
estine,"  cried  her  listener,  "you've  made  his 
heart's  fortune — his  and  mine  together ! ' ' 

"Attendez — wait;  tha'  'z  not  sure  yet. 
We  dunno  if  that  Pere  Raphael — of  the  so 
small  han'  an'  feet,  ha,  ha! — be  willing  to 
come.  And  even  if  he  come  we  dunno  if  the 
judge  goin'  be  please'  with  Pere  Raphael." 

"Oh,  but  he  will,  he  will.     Ah,  darling, 
how  can  I  ever  repay  you  ?  " 
[99] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"You  want  to  know?  Come!  Come 
inside!  You  can  pay  in  advanze."  They 
hastened  to  Florestine's  chamber,  where 
Florestine  explained.  "You  shall  make 
'Sieur  Davezac  take  me  this  letter  to  Jules." 
She  showed  one.  "Ah,  Abbee,  'ow  glad  the 
good  God  muz'  be,  now,  that  he  led  them 
teach  me  to  write!  But  firz'  I'll  tell  you 
w'at  Caroline  fine  out  laz'  night  from  the 
judge." 

While  she  recounted  the  entrancing  story, 
Jules  St.-Ange,  with  Baptiste  at  his  back, 
stood  on  the  sidewalk  close  by  his  lost  home. 
To  this  outcast  pair  the  inundation  had 
made  the  shape  of  the  earth  newly  problem 
atical.  Baptiste  was  perplexed,  but  his 
master,  as  ever,  remained  cheerful  and  un 
biassed.  "Me,  I  dunno,"  he  said  "but  I 
thing  it  is  roun',  mais  ad  the  same  time  flat — 
[100] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

like  a  plate.  Because,  me,  if  I  was  making 
that  worl'  I  would  try  to  suit  every-bodie, 
and  I  thing  that  muz'  be  the  way  'tis  make. 
You  fine  it  flat;  well,  then,  it  is  flat:  Father 
Pierre  fine  it  roun';  well,  then,  it  is  roun' 
— inais  that  Caroline! — wanting  to  see  me  so 
bad — w'ere  she  is  hide?" 

"Ah,  I  dunno;  laz'  time  she  was  righd 
there.  I  shall  knock  ?" 

"Knock?  ad  the  porte-cochere  of  my 
papa  ?  Baptiste,  'f  you  knock  there  I  sell 
you  to-day,  h-auction!  Knock  if  you  want; 
that  h-auction  raise  me  some  money  for  the 
bread  and  coffee,  else,  me,  I  dunno  'ow  I'm 
goin'  raise  that." 

While  he  spoke  M.  St.-Ange  noted  with 

mingled  amusement  and  regard,  on  the  other 

side  of  the  way,  a  strikingly  dressed  stranger. 

It  was  Davezac,  passing  again,  and  the  two 

[101] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

gave  each  other  stare  for  stare.  The  spying 
maidens,  from  Florestine's  high  chamber, 
could  see  Diuiitry,  though  not  Jules. 

"Sacre!"  murmured  the  lover  of  Abigail 
between  his  perfect  teeth,  "any  plaze  but 
there,  and  with  her  perchanze  looking,  I 
would  crozz  all  that  mud  and  make  you  to 
elucidade  that  stare;  but  I'll  see  you  aggain." 

He  scanned  him  sidewise,  carefully;  so 
much  too  carefully  that,  to  Florestine's  ex 
quisite  entertainment,  he  ran  into  a  towering 
backwoodsman,  who  affect  onately  apolo 
gized,  while  street  observers  and  even  the 
frightened  Abigail  laughed;  but  Jules  so 
courteously  refrained  that  M.  Davezac  for 
gave  his  earlier  offence. 

Up  on  the   next   square  Dimitry  looked 
back.     At  the  corner  opposite  the  front  of 
the  judge's  house  people  were  running  to- 
[102] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

gether  from  all  directions.  Bareheaded  in 
the  midst  of  the  press  towered  the  back 
woodsman,  Parson  Jones.  Presently  he 
was  talking  to  Jules,  who  had  crossed  to  his 
side.  However,  two  or  three  onlookers  from 
upper  balconies  said  it  was  all  a  false  alarm, 
and  as  they  spoke  Dimitry  espied  Caroline 
slip  from  her  wicket  and  hurry  his  way, 
though  with  the  street  between  them.  Now 
she  sidled  into  an  arch,  openly  smiled  at  him, 
and  slyly  showed  Florestine's  letter.  He 
went  to  her  swiftly  enough,  read  and  par 
leyed;  parleyed  twice  as  long  as  he  would 
have  done  had  he  known  that  Abigail  was 
once  more  in  the  lattice. 

"But,    oh,    Florestine,"    said    the    over 
matched  Abby — for  Florestine  was  with  her 
and  had  revealed  her  whole  mad  plot,  pro 
posing  to  make  it  a  round  conspiracy  of  five, 
[103] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

including  Caroline — "that  would  be  to 
steal!  to  steal,  Florestine!  How  can  I — can 
I — ask  him  to  help  me  steal  ?" 

"Ste-eal!  Ah,  ha,  ha,  Abbee,  you  dunno 
bittween  to  steal  and  to  borrow?" 

"Oh,  but  to  strip  the  house  like  a  gang  of 
thieves — ah,  me,  me!  It's  tearing  my  poor 
conscience  in  two!" 

"Abbee,  look!"  Florestine  counted  off 
on  her  fingers:  "Firs',  we  take  all  those 
bric-a-brac;  segond,  'Sieur  Davezac  he 
pawn  them  yondeh  and  give  the  money  to 
Jules;  three,  Jules  he  pay  with  it  all  his 
debt';  four,  the  judge  he  give  aggain  to 
Jules  the  double  all  he  pay;  five,  we  rid- 
deem  those  bric-a-brac,  and  the  fortune  of  the 
'eart  is  make  for  every-bodie.  Ah,  Abbee,  if 
you  don't  help  me  to  make  that,  you  tear  my 
poor  conscien'  in  fi-i-ive!" 
[104] 


PERE    RAPHAEL 

"Oh,  sweet,  I  am  such  an  awful  coward!" 
"Ah,  yes,   but  sometime'  they  are   very 
uzeful,  those  coward'." 

"But  you  spoke  of  difficulties— 
"Yes,  ah,  yes!  Firz'  place,  I  dunno  can 
we  make  Jules  take  those  money,  he  is  a  so 
proud  of  his  honor!  And,  segond  place, 
ev'n  if  he  do  that,  I  dunno  if  he  h-use  those 
money  to  pay  those  debt' — ha,  ha,  ha !  Than 
w'at  we  goin'  do,  w'en  Tante  and  the  judge 
bi^-in  to  mizz  those  candelabra,  those  vase', 

o 

those  spoo-oon'?" 

Abigail  gasped  and  moaned,  but  Flores- 
tine  clutched  her  arm  and  they  peered 
through  the  lattice.  Up  their  own  sidewalk 
came  Parson  Jones,  and  at  his  elbow  tripped 
Jules  St.-Ange.  The  parson  was  making 
reckless  show  of  his  bank-notes,  which  Jules 
regarded  with  lively  desire  while  he  warned 
[105] 


PERE    RAPHAEL 

their  holder  of  his  folly.  Behind  the  two 
were  Baptiste  and  Colossus,  with  the  loaf 
they  had  shared  stowed  safely  inside  them. 
The  four  passed  close  by  the  lattice.  Flores- 
tine,  gathering  some  hint  of  Jules's  design, 
sent  him  a  soft  call  of  distress,  but  Parson 
Jones  drowned  it  unaware  with  the  re-echo 
ing  voice  in  which  he  explained  that  the  fund 
belonged  to  his  church  in  the  wilderness, 
and  invited  Jules  to  breakfast. 

"Abbee,  Abbee,"  she  gasped,  "I  shall 
follow  them!" 

But  Abby  seized  her  as  if  the  pair  were 
drowning  together,  and  in  panting  suspense 
Florestine  lingered  and  gazed.  The  gam 
bling-house!  the  gambling-house  at  the 
corner!  Would  Jules  lead  the  stranger  into 
it  ?  For  there  the  two  masters  and  servants 
had  halted.  But  the  maidens  took  courage 
[106] 


\ 


Florestine   .   .   .  sent  him  a  soft  call  of  distress 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

when  they  heard  the  parson  set  forth  his 
theory  of  a  special  Providence,  and  Jules 
profess  a  like  conviction.  And  now  grateful 
ears  sprang  into  Florestine's  eyes  as  the 
men  turned  away,  picked  their  steps  across 
the  mire  of  the  Rue  Royale,  and  disappeared 
toward  the  Rue  Chartres. 

"Wait,  darling,  wait!"  whispered  the 
clinging  Abigail.  "There's  hope  yet;  let 
me  think  a  moment!" 

"Ah!"  cried  the  more  daring  one,  "sinze 
all  night  I  have  wait  and  think.  Watch  you 
there;  I  goin'  fedge  those  bric-a-brac!" 
She  darted  in. 

Abigail  wrung  her  hands.     "I  cannot  do 

o  o 

this!"  she  cried,  "I  cannot,  I  cannot!"  Yet 
where  courage  failed,  friendship  held  fast, 
and  her  act  was  stouter  than  her  word.  She 
flinched  with  affright,  for  Caroline,  who  had 
[107] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

returned  unnoticed,  softly  called  in  through 
the  lattice  from  the  angle  by  the  porte- 
cochere. 

"I  foun'  him,  Miss  Abbie,  yass  'm.  But, 
well,  eh,  he  say  Pere  Raphael  ain't  comin'. 
Don't  give  no  reason,  he  say,  'cep'  dat 
Miche  Dabzac  he  stay  away  too  much  f'om 
confession." 

"Wat,  w'at,  w'at?"  exclaimed  Florestine, 
as  she  reappeared  with  a  small  heavy  burden 
wrapped  in  a  large  woollen  garment. 

"Oh,  Lawdy,  missy,"  said  the  maid, 
"  Pere  Raphael  refuse'  to  come!" 

Caroline!"  The  mistress  snatched  open 
the  lattice  window.  "Assassin,  you!  'Sieur 
Davezac — he  riffuse  to  come,  al-soP" 

"Lawd,  no!  He  waitin'  dess  round  de 
cawneh;  but  he  'fraid  nobody  gwine  trus'  him 
now  sence  Pere  Raphael  'fuse  to  come." 
[108] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Go,  Caroline,  slow  torture,  you!  fly! 
Tell  him  come!  Tell  him  Pere  Raphael  he 
'ave  change'  his  mind!" 

"  Florestine ! "  gasped  Abigail. 

"Mais  certainement !  Caroline,  tell  him 
Pere  Raphael  sen'  the  judge  word  he  comin' 
speak  well-well  for  him.  Allez!  va!" 

The  maid  glided  away.  Her  mistress  set 
down  her  burden  and,  drawing  the  wrapper 
from  it,  whispered,  "Hun'rade-dolla'  clock 
to  big-in!" 

Abigail  gulped.  "In  the  judge's  own 
cloak!"  she  moaned. 

"Ah,  no,"  replied  her  smiling  friend; 
''and,  any'ow,  we  don't  goin'  to  pawnbreak 
that.  But  you,  Abbee;  you  di'n'  prayed 
laz'  night  for  Pere  Raphael  to  come  ?" 

"I  had  never  heard  of  Pere  Raphael!" 

"Ah,  yes;  you  never  hear';  and  yet  ad 
[109] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

the  same  time  you  di'n'  billieve  he's  coming! 
Ah,  Abbee,  I  dunno  'ow  you  can  be  a  so 
wicked  like  that!  Mais  wait  there  whiles  I 
fedge  some  more  of  those  thing'." 

The  next  moment  Abigail,  left  alone,  saw 
Dimitry  reappear  at  the  corner.  Caroline 
was  with  him,  but  they  parted;  she  came, 
he  went  in  search  of  Jules.  He  turned  the 
corner  St.-Ange  and  the  parson  had  turned; 
but  unluckily  he  had  not  seen  them  enter  the 
parson's  lodging-house,  and  thinking  they 
had  passed  on  into  and  down  the  Rue  Char- 
tres,  he  hastened  that  way. 

"Oh,  yass  'm,"  said  Caroline,  again  at  the 
lattice  window,  "he  be  right  back.  He  on'y 
gwine  tell  Miche  Jules  fo'  Gawd's  sake 
don't  go  gitt'n'  money  in  no  scan'lous  way 
whiles  we  a-raisin'  it  faw  him  squah  and 
clean." 

[110] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

"Abbee!"  cried  Florestine,  returning  with 
fresh  booty,  "'ow  you  are  fine,  to  be  a  so 
brave  like  that,  an'  same  time  withoud  a 
teaspoon  of  courage ! " 

"I  think  so,  myself!"  was  the  flashing 
reply. 

When  the  breakfast-bell  tinkled  and  Flo 
restine,  busy  as  a  bird  with  nestlings,  caught 
her  breath  and  hearkened,  fortune  was  kind. 
Mrs.  Merrifield,  Tante,  and  the  judge,  worn 
with  the  cares  of  a  sleepless  night,  sent  ex 
cuses  for  their  non-appearance.  So  pros 
pered  the  reckless  scheme,  and  presently, 
while  Abigail,  alone,  and  always  the  better 
nerved  in  Florestine's  absence,  watched  in 
the  balcony  for  her  lover's  return,  there 
came  instead,  without  their  servants  and 
unfound  by  Davezac,  Jules  St.-Ange  and 
Parson  Jones.  Through  what  a  maze  the 

[in] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

prodigal    was    leading    his    victim!      They 
passed  again  down  street  and  out  of  sight. 

Laden  with  her  final  spoils  Florestine 
stepped  into  the  balcony  once  more  and 
Abigail  told  of  the  two  men.  "And  there's 
hope  yet,  dear,"  she  said  with  spirit,  "for 
they're  on  their  way  to  church ;  I  heard  them 
say  so.  At  any  rate  we  can  wait  and  see! " 

"Wait!"  replied  Florestine,  "for  Jules  to 
go  to  church?  Ah,  no!" 

Caroline  emerged  from  the  porte-cochere 
and  passed  up  through  the  lattice  the  fam 
ily's  biggest  market-basket,  and  while  Flo 
restine  filled  it  Dimitry  arrived. 

"Now,  Miss  Abby,"  said  the  maid, 
"please  han'  me  dat  ah  big  dud  fo'  to  kyiver 
de  load.  Thank  you,  ma'am.  Lead  off, 
Miche  Dabzac,  and  de  Lawd  have  mussy  on 
ow  souls!" 

[112] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

"Stop!  stop!"  commanded  Abigail,  with 
sudden  authority,  "let  us — oh,  let  us — oh, 
wait,  wait!" 

"Mademoiselle,"  put  in  her  lover — he 
tried  to  show  the  tenderest  worship,  but  it 
was  the  first  word  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her 
and  he  burst  into  a  blaze — "I  break  any  law 
you  want!  Even  I  keep  any  law  you  want. 
But  to  wait  ?  My  God !  Mademoiselle,  sinze 
five  hun'rade  year'  di'n'  no  Davezac  wait  for 
no-body!  Allons,  Caroline!" 

By  his  aid  the  great  load  had  risen  to  the 
slave  girl's  head,  and  as  they  went  it  rested 
there  as  jauntily  as  a  flowered  hat.  The  two 
maidens  watched  them  go  in  at  the  pawn 
broker's  door,  and  were  looking  for  them  to 
come  forth  again,  when  all  at  once  Flores- 
tine  dragged  Abigail  from  the  balcony,  and 
from  a  drawing-room  window  showed  her 
[113] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

Tante  and  Mrs.  Merrifield  issuing  into  the 
street  by  the  front  door.  "Tsh-sh!  they 
thing  we  are  there  in  my  room  asleep  to 
gether;  Caroline  tole  that  to  them  w'en  yo' 
mama  di'n'  fine  you  in  yo'  bed.  Ah,  yo' 
mama  she  'ave  her  liT  sicret,  too.  She 
w?.nt  to  go  and  riturn  withoud  you  finding 
that  out — ha,  ha,  ha! — that  she  have  been 
there." 

"Where?" 

"Ah !  only  to  mass.  She  don't  want  riffuse 
that  to  Tante,  an'  same  time  she  dunno  if 
tha'  'z  maybee  a  liT  bit  wrong,  and  of  course, 
you  know,  the  only  way  to  fine  that  out  't  is 
to  try  it.  Then  if  you  fine  it  wrong  you  be 
sorrie,  and  that  make  it  right."  The  pan- 
came  out  again  into  the  balcony  and  after 
much  anxious  waiting  Davezac  and  Caroline 
reappeared. 

[114] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Wat!  Caroline,  you  'ave  the  sick  stom 
ach — to  smile  like  that?" 

"Momselle,  'cept  dis  yeh  old  dud  what 
you  tell  me  be  sho'  to  fetch  back,  do  whole 
kit  an'  bilin'  brung  dess  half  what  we  bound 
to  raise." 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!  and  if  Tante  fine  those 
thing'  gone!" 

"Mesdemoiselles,"  interposed  Dimitry, 
"look!  I  shall  go  at  my  room — bring  h'all 
my  thing'— -raise  that  balanze  in  half  an 
hour!" 

"Whiles  they  are  at  mass!"  broke  in  the 
delighted  Florestine.  "Yass!  Tis  the 
h-only  way,  Abbee.  Go,  'Sieur  Davezac,  go. 
God  will  pay  you  for  that !  Go,  make  quick 
biffo'  Pere  Raphael  come  fine  uz  all  here 
together.  Go!  and  same  time  send  me  that 
Jules  St.-Ange,  while  me  I  make  Pere  Raph- 
[115] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

ael  tell  the  judge  you  makin'  yo'  possible  to 
brin^  him  back  his  son." 

O 

A  half -hour  was  all  that  remained  of  the 
Sabbath  forenoon,  and  Judge  St.-Ange  had 
not  yet  left  his  bedchamber,  when  the  front 
door  bell  rang  and  Caroline  went  up-stairs 
to  announce  Pere  Raphael. 

"Yass,  suh,  an'  he  got"— she  made  a  dis 
tressed  effort  not  to  smile  at  thought  of  the 
two  figures  meeting — "he  got  a  green  shade 
ove'  his  eyes  biggeh  'n  yone." 

Pere  Raphael  paced  the  drawing-room 
alone,  truly  "a  verie  small  thin."  The  house 
was  still.  Now  and  again  as  the  scant  form, 
trim  even  in  the  rude  draping  of  rope-tied 
gown  and  unlifted  cowl,  came  to  the  balcony 
windows,  the  deeply  hooded  eyes  looked 
out,  first  down  the  street  and  then  up.  Thus 
[116] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

they  were  presently  drawn  to  a  number  of 
unwashed  little  girls  near  the  next  door,  a 
door  of  the  gambling-house.  The  flock  were 
listening  against  it,  giggling,  trying  to  peep 
under  it,  starting  away,  wringing  hands,  and 
stealing  back  to  listen  again.  Pere  Raphael 
stepped  out  upon  the  open  end  of  the  balcony. 

"Tis  Miche  Jules,"  said  a  brazen  young 
ster,  her  eyes  on  the  green  shade,  her  apron 
in  her  teeth.  "Yass,  he  pass  in  yondeh  wid 
a  so  beeg  man,  by  front  way,  round  cawneh, 
and  beeg  man  he  don't  want  play  card',  and 
he  yell  so  loud  dey  scared  of  him." 

The  visitor  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
wearily  chose  a  chair  and  knelt  beside  it, 
but  instantly  stood  upright  again  at  sound 
of  a  footfall. 

Judge  St.-Ange  came  slowly  in  and  paused. 
"Caroline!"  he  called.  The  maid  came. 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Mademoiselle  Florestine,"  he  asked, 
"where  she  is?" 

"Miche,  she  say  Miss  Abby  got  sich  a 
pow'ful  migraine  she  feel  bound  to  stay  wid 
her  ef  you  kin  escuse  her;  yass,  suh." 

The  judge  waved  out  the  servant  and 
turned  to  his  visitor.  Pere  Raphael's  eyes 
remained  downcast  behind  their  ugly  screen 
until  the  two  were  seated. 

"Is  that  a  fact,  indeed,"  asked  the  judge, 
"that  we  'ave  the  one  maladie  ?" 

"Ah,"  replied  the  little  father,  in  a  thin, 
obstructed  voice,  "with  me  'tis  but  a  cold, 
and  in  the  throat  like-wise,  till  I  was  nearly 
privvent  the  honor  to  come." 

"They  privvent  many  thing',  those  sore 
h-eye',"  agreed  the  judge. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  the  caller,  "I  cannot  read 
me  those  prayer',  cannot  wride  me  those 
[118] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

sermon'.  Almoze  they  stop  me  playing 
those  domino' — those  card'." 

"Ha-a-ah!   you  are  fon'  of  those  card'?" 

"Yes,  I  am  verie,  verie  fon'  to  play  them. 
Mais,  w'en  I  cann'  play,  that  save  me  money. 
Biccause  those  hoss-raze — those  cock-fight 
—I  never  bet  on  those.  Tha'  'z  only  thing 
I  ever  bet,  me, — those  card'." 

''And  me  the  same,"  said  the  judge.  A 
business  silence  ensued.  Then — "Pere  Raph 
ael,  that  young  man — he  is  one  of  those 
Davezac',  I  sue-pose,  of  the  Cote  d'Or,  eh  ? 
You  can  speak  good  word  for  him  ?" 

"Ah,  that  dippan'.  Me,  I  h-am  a  pries'; 
you,  you  h-are  a  judge.  I  dunno  w'at  goin' 
be  good  word  to  you.  'Sieur  Davezac  he  got, 
h-any'ow,  all  the  bad  'abit'  necessaire  to  a 
perfec'  Creole  gen'leman." 

"Aha!  Well,  tha'  'z  mighty  good  word. 
[1191 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

For  one  pries'  tha'd  be  verie  bad;    but  for 
one  Creole  gen'Ieman,  you  know " 

"Hmm.  Mais,  same  time,  there  is  one 
diffycultie,  in'sieu'." 

"Tha'  'z  not  mannie." 

"Mais,  I  thing  that  don't  please  you, 
m'sieu'.  I  'ave  the  fear  that  Madame  Mer- 
rifiel'  she  'ave  the  'ope  that  M.  Davezac  he 
'ave  the  willingnezz  to  change  his  n'Z-igion. 
Mais,  I  am  compel  to  tell  you — w'at  he  tell 
me — rather  than  change  his  n7-igion  he 
sooner  go  to  hell.  Pardon,  I  am  sorrie  to 
tell  you  that,  mais—  The  small  speaker 
shrugged  from  ears  to  elbows. 

The  host  hid  his  admiration  under  a  cold 
smile.  "Tha"z  brave, yes, "he acknowledged. 

"Brave — ah,  tha'  'z  another  troub' — h-all 
the  time  fightingg,  fightingg,  or  fran'  of 
somebody  fightingg!" 

[120] 


FERE     RAPHAEL 

"Ah!  but  a  gen'leman,  those  time' — ! 
My  faith!  Pere  Raphael,  he  shall  'ave 
everything  w'at  he  want.  For  why  he  did'n' 
come  with  you?" 

"M'sieu',  he  is  af-raid  to  be  in  debt  to 
you." 

"'Ow  he's  goin'  be  in  debt  to  me?  Im- 
possib'!" 

"He  say  if  you  speak  well  for  him  to 
Madame  Merrifiel'  he  is  in  debt  to  you  the 
res'  of  the  life,  and  he  don't  want  see  you 
aggain  till  any'ow  he  commance  to  pay  you, 
and  he's  gone  pawnbroken  everything  w'at 
he  got " 

"Ah!— ah-h!— ah-h-h!  My  fran',  oh-h, 
w'at  that  is  for?" 

"M'sieu',  'tis  for — pardon,  to  tell  you  that, 
'tis  a  diffycult;  tha'  'z  a  verie  daily-cat." 

With  his  eyes  helplessly  dropped,  the 
[121] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

host  straightened  severely  against  the  high 
back  of  his  chair.  "'Tis  ab-out  my  son? 
Ah — go  h-on." 

"Well,  you  see,  'Sieur  Davezac  he  hearin' 
every-bodie  talk  'bout  that.  And  w'en  he  say 
he  bet  any-bodie — fight  any-bodie — w'at  say 
Judge  St.-Ange  he  don't  trit  his  son  all  right, 
then  every-bodie  say,  'Oh,  yes;  the  judge 
he  thing  he  trit  his  son  all  right,  mais  if  the 
judge  know  that  ris-on  his  son  don't  pay 
those  debt' '" 

"Ris-on  he  don't  pay — he  don't  want!" 

"Yes;  mais  they  thing  'tis  bic-ause  yo' 
son  he's  fran'  of  so  many  poor  man,  and 
every  time  one  poor  fran'  cann'  pay  his 
debt'  yo'  son  he  pay  that  with  his  h-own 
monie." 

The  judge  shook  his  drooping  head 
mournfully.  "I  do  not  bil-ieve.  I  never 
[122] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

fine  one  sign  of  that.  If  I  'ave  see'  that,  my 
son  he  would  sleep  laz'  night  in  his  h-own 
bed,  and  me  I  would  sleep  in  mine.  Mon 
Dieu !  Pere  Raphael,  tha'  'z  a  thing  I  don' 
like  to  talk  ab-out,  but — w'at  I  muz  find  out 
— 'ow  that  make  'Sieur  Davezac  take  all  his 
thing'  pawnshop?'* 

"Ah,  I  tell  you.  He  say  he  goin'  find  that 
Jules  St.-Ange,  goin'  lend  him  those  monie, 
goin'  make  him  pay  h-all  those  debt'.  Then 
he  make  him  go  at  his  papa,  and  say,  '  At  the 
end  I  'ave  commance'  all  right,  I  goin'  to 
work.'" 

The  judge  looked  up  sharply,  but  then 
sank  his  head  lower  than  before.  "I  don't 
bil-ieve  th'  'z  a  possib'  to  make.  Same  time 
already,  me,  I  am  in  the  debt  to  'Sieur 
Davezac  so  long  my  life;  if  he  succeed  to 
finizh,  or  if  he  don't  succeed  to  finizh,  to  me 
[123] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

that  be  h-all  the  same;  he  'ave  commance'. 
To  commance,  'tis  enough."  His  grip  trem 
bled  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  but  his  head 
came  up. 

"I  thing  tha'  'z  verie  well,  m'sieu,'  "  said 
Pere  Raphael,  stirring  as  if  to  go.  A  strange 
voice  was  distracting  both  visitor  and  host 
with  mad  though  remote  and  smothered 
bellowings.  The  judge,  in  apology  said  that 
they  came  from  the  next  house,  through 
the  walls. 

"I  never  year  it  loud  like  that  biffo'.  Pere 
Raphael,  I  want  you  tell  'Sieur  Davezac — 
and  same  time  my  son  I  don't  want  him  fine 
that  out — if  'Sieur  Davezac  he  succeed,  my 
son  he  'ave  planty  to  pay  him  back,  bic-ause 
me  I  shall  give  my  son  twice  w'at  he  spend 
to  pay  h-all  those  debt' — never  biffo'  I  di'ii' 
year  some  noises  come  through  thad  wall." 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

"All  right,  m'sieu';  I  tell  him—if  I  see 
him.  Mais,  there  is  one  thing:  'Sieur  Dave- 
zac  he  say  maybee  those  monie  he  raise  be 
not  enough  to  pay  h-all  those  debt';  well, 
any'ow,  w'en  you  see  yo'  son  commance  to 
pay,  you  be  satis-/?/;  to  commance,  'tis 
enough.  Mais  me,  I— 

With  a  shrug  the  speaker  rose,  and  the 
judge  stood  up  very  straight. 

"Pere  Raphael,  no;  tha'  'z  all  w'at  I  can 
sav — no!  For  'Sieur  Davezac  to  commance 
'tis  enough,  yes;  but  for  my  son — and  still, 
my  God !  with  my  son  I  be  glad  be  recon- 
c{lo>  — for  him  to  commance,  'tis  too  late; 
he  muz'  finizh."  The  speaker's  tone, 
though  grieved,  was  kind,  and  the  raising  of 
his  voice  was  solely  to  divert  his  visitor 
from  the  noises  that  continued  to  search 
through  the  partition  wall.  "Come  at  home 
[125] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

here  aggain  this  evening,  will  you  ?  If  that 
troub'  with  my  son  pass,  or  if  it  be  worse, 
all  the  same  I  be  wanting  you  bad — fellow- 
sufferer  those  sore  h-eye' — to  play  me  some 
card'." 

The  visitor  promised  to  come,  and  bowed 
low  for  thanks,  but  both  were  giving  all 
their  heed  to  the  hot  altercation  that  searched 
through  the  solid  masonry  and  was  bringing 
the  judge  undisguised  distress.  Pere  Ra 
phael  had  faced  toward  the  front  door,  the 
judge  following  and  trying  to  flood  the  air 
with  his  own  speech,  when  there  came  from 
the  gambler's  house  a  sound  as  of  some  one 
falling,  and  outcries  in  several  voices.  Then 
there  was  a  jangle  of  the  St.-Ange  door-bell. 
The  ready  Caroline  flew  to  the  door,  and 
Madame  Merrifield  and  Tante  sprang  in, 
casting  wild  glances  behind  them. 
[126] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"There!"  cried  the  hostess,  with  a  sister's 
indignation  in  every  inch  of  her  bonnet  and 
draperies.  "Lis-ten!  Look!  Come  there 
and  look,  you!  You  what  cannod  take  ad 
vize!  Oh,  you  what,  sinze  appointed  jodge, 
got  no  time  to  be  a  father! " 

The  judge  caught  one  outside  glimpse 
and  turned  away  with  a  groan.  In  the  midst 
of  a  multiplying  crowd  the  towering  form 
of  Parson  Jones,  between  a  burly  red  ruf 
fian  on  one  side  and  Jules  St.-Ange  on 
the  other,  was  being  hurried  away,  sway 
ing  bloody-headed,  across  the  Rue  Royale. 
The  three  men  vanished  into  the  cross 
street. 

"He  fine  his  money  gone,"  cried  one  child 
to  another.  "Dey  say  one  niggah  take  it; 
dey  gone  hunt  him  up ! " 

"Caroline,  my  'at  and  shoe'!"  exclaimed 
[127] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

the  judge,  and  would  have  torn  the  shade 
from  his  eyes,  but  the  sister  prevented  him. 
A  better  thought  came.  "Pere  Raphael' '- 
he  tried  to  peer  this  way  and  that — "Pere 
Raphael,  go  you,  tell  my  son — ah,  my  God ! 
where  is  that  Pere  Raphael  ?" 

"Gone  already!"  joyously  cried  Caroline. 
"Lef  at  de  fus'  beginnin'!"  She  turned  to 
Florestine  and  Abigail,  who  stood  clinging 
to  each  other,  Florestine  as  pale  and  grief- 
broken  as  though  she  had  been  Abigail,  and 
Abigail  as  strangely  full  of  a  new  intrepidity 
as  if  she  were  Florestine.  "You  see  him  go, 
bofe  'n  you,  didn'  you  ?  You  didn'  ?  He 
go  by  de  po'te-cochere ;  yass,  suh;  crossin' 
tow'd  de  riveh,  in  Toulouse  Street,  like  he 
gwine  head  'em  off." 

"Go  you,  Caroline,"  said  the  judge,  and 
Florestine  spoke  the  same  word,  straighten- 
[1281 


"Fine,  Miche  Jules!    Jules!" 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

ing  from  Abby's  clasp.    "Go,  make  quick! 
You  shall  fine  him!" 

But  as  the  young  mistress  pushed  her  maid 
from  the  room,  she  added  privately:  "Fine 
Miche  Jules!  Jules!  Jules!  Fine  Miche 
Jules!" 

The  judge  turned  to  Madame  Merrifield. 
"Yo*  pardon!  'Twas  not  to  give  you  that 
troub'  that  those  heaven'  make  you  our  pris 
oner;  for  you  I  'ave  a  different  news."  Abby 
moved  away,  and  he  spoke  on  in  a  murmur. 

"Pere  Raphael,  as  you  'ave  seen 

The  lady  received  the  information  with 
due  dignity  and  thanks,  and  presently  turned 
to  her  daughter.  "Come,  my  dear,  the  over 
flow  has  passed  off.  Put  on  your  things  and 

let  us " 

Abigail   was   beseeching  Tante  to   allow 
Florestine  to  go  home  with  her,  and  when 
[129] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

Madame  Merrifield  urged  it  the  petition 
was  granted. 

"Here  tha'  'z  no  place  for  her  ad  the 
presend,"  said  the  sister  aside  to  her  brother, 
with  tremulous  energy. 

"Ah,  verie  good!"  was  his  reply.  "For 
me,  I  goin'  make  my  son  fine  out  I  am  a 
judge!"  And  the  moment  he  was  alone  he 
rang  for  a  man-servant  and  sent  him  on  an 
errand  that  filled  the  slave's  face  with  con 
sternation. 

Madame  Merrifield 's  tall  house,  in  which, 
this  afternoon,  she  was  taking  some  of  the 
sleep  owing  to  her  from  the  night,  stood 
flush  with  the  sidewalk,  with  its  garden 
on  one  side,  at  the  corner  of  two  streets. 
Through  its  oleanders  and  myrtles  and  its 
high  wooden  fence  of  graceful  openwork 
[130] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

one  got  a  broken  view  of  the  rude  Place  Con 
go,  in  a  part  of  which  a  great  multitude  were 
gathered  on  the  board  seats  of  Cay etano's  am 
phitheatre  to  see  his  buffalo-and-tiger  fight. 
Abigail  and  Florestine  were  in  the  garden. 
The  sounds  and  glimpses  they  caught  in 
their  embowered  hiding  would  have  yielded 
few  clear  meanings,  but  Caroline,  outside 
the  double  gate,  went  and  came,  describing 
and  explaining.     That?    That  was  the  up- 
river  men  jeering  at  the  Latins.    And  that? 
That  was  the  Latins  snarling  back  at  the 
Americains.     Oh,   there  would    be  bloody 
trouble  if  the  show  did  not  come  off  soon! 
That?     That  was  the  Americains  singing. 
Yes,  the  tune  was  a  hymn,  the  maid  admitted 
to  Abigail,  "But  you  can  dess  thaynk  Gawd 
you  cayn't  make  out  de  words." 

Once  she  came  excitedly  saying  she  had 
[131] 


PERE    RAPHAEL 

seen,  seated  in  the  throng,  at  inaccessible 
distances  and  apart,  Colossus  and  Baptiste. 
She  hurried  back  in  hope  to  discover  Jules, 
the  parson,  or  Dimitry;  but  as  she  vanished 
Dimitry  came  along,  scanning  every  window 
of  the  house,  and  quite  overlooking  the  gar 
den  until  Florestine  stepped  from  cover  to  the 
half-open  gate.    He  strode  in  a  step  or  two, 
lifted  his  hat,  and  with  the  glow  of  an  aide- 
de-camp  used  it  to  poinUo  the  Place  Congo. 
"Mademoiselle,    I    cannot    stop.      I    am 
cloze  be'ind   the  track  of   'Sieur  St.-Ange. 
Some-bodie  pig'  the  pocket  of  that  Posson 
Jone',  and  Posson    Jone'    and    'Sieur    St.- 
Ange  they  are  pazz  at  that  bull-fight  to  fine 
if  'tis  his  niggah." 

"Butt  had  pawn-stop  /     'Sieur  Davezac, 
w'at  you  'ave  make  ad  that  pawn-stop?" 
The  young  man   straightened   with   joy. 


But  Caroline,  outside  the  double  gate,  went  and  came, 
describing  and  explaining 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"By  those  prayer'  of  my  saint,  thad  monie  is 
raise' !  Tis  now  only  to  fine  'Sieur  St.-Ange 
and  give  it  him.  You  'ave  the  one  moiety 
me  I  'ave  the  other."  He  backed  off. 

"Wait,  'Sieur  Davezac,  wait!  My  faith! 
if  Posson  Jone'  don't  fine  his  monie,  Jules 
sure  to  give  those  monie  to  Posson  Jone'!" 

Dimitry  paused  agape  while  he  took  in  the 
probability.  "Mademoiselle,  verie  well. 
I  give  him  that  moiety  only  w'en  I  see  you 
give  him  the  other." 

"But,  'Sieur  Davezac,  another  thing! 
Pere  Raphael,  he's  come  yonder  and  the 
judge  say  'h-all  right.' ' 

The  suitor  flamed  with  wonder  and  grati 
tude.  "Hah!  now  to  fedge  that  Jules  St.- 
Ange  ! "  He  sped  away. 

The  longest  day  in  the  life  of  Judge  St.- 
[133] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

Arige  drew  to  its  end.  Again  the  lamplighter 
passed.  His  yellow  lights  twinkled  after 
him  from  corner  to  corner.  Over  the  dark 
ened  shops,  and  here  and  there  between 
them,  the  balconied  windows  of  one  parlor 
after  another  grew  luminous  inside  their 
curtains.  Only  those  of  the  St.-Ange  house 
remained  dark.  Tinkling  into  their  melan 
choly  dusk  with  lighted  lamps,  two  servants 
in  turn  had  been  sent  tinkling  out  of  it 
again  by  the  solitary  judge.  "Thad  dark- 
nezz,"  he  kindly  told  the  second  one,  "as 
suage*  those  sore  h-eye'." 

But  now  came  Caroline.  Behind  her  fol 
lowed  the  earlier  two;  each  of  the  three 
bore  tall,  globed  lamps,  and  at  their  side 
walked  his  sister. 

"My  brother,"  she  said,  "it  is  the  Sab 
bath."  And  as  the  servants  left  the  lamps 
[1341 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

and  retired,  she  added,  "Ah,  have  we  not 
darkness  enough,  with  all  those  lamp'  we 
can  light?" 

His  inquiry  admitted  the  fact.  "Flores- 
tine — she  is  rit-urn'  ? " 

"Florestine  she  is  rit-urn',  yes;  but  better 
you  leave  her  there  w'ere  she  wild  to  be 
al-lone — in  her  room.  St.-Ange,  thad  Flor 
estine  her  soul — like  mine — is  in  torment  for 
thad  boy,  yo'  son,  my  de'  brother,  oud  there 
in  the  street." 

"He  is  not  in  the  street,  my  sister." 

The  sister  clutched  her  brother's  arm  in 
tragic  affright,  and  all  at  once  he  lost  his 
self-command,  and  exclaimed,  "My  son! 
— my  span'threef! — vagabond! — robber  of 
strenger' ! " 

"W'ere  he  is,  St.-Ange?     Ah,  my  God! 

w'at  you  'ave  done  ? " 

[135] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

"If  that  pol-ice  'ave  done  w'at  I  sen' 
them  to  do,  he  is  in  the  calaboose." 

With  a  moan  as  if  she  were  stabbed,  the 
sister  sank  into  a  chair  and  hid  her  face. 
The  judge  rose  and  pulled  a  bell-cord,  and 
she  hurried  out.  Before  he  could  speak  to 
the  servant  who  responded,  the  door-bell 
rang  imperiously. 

"Go,  you;  that  'ave  the  soun'  of  M. 
Davezac.  If  yes — or  if  Pere  Raphael — tell 
him  come  in.  Anybody  bis-ide,  I  cann' 
see  them  to-night  —  bic-ause  those  sore 
h-eye'.  Ah,  my  God!"  he  added  to  himself, 
"I  wizh  I  'ave  not  promize'  to  play  those 
card'!" 

M.  Davezac  entered  with  a  head  as  high 
as  if  he  came  with  a  demand  for  surren 
der.  What  could  it  mean  ?  At  an  austere 
distance  he  bowed  low.  Yet  the  judge 
[136] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

made  himself  almost  jovial.  "Aha!  ad 
the  end  you  are  there  for  that  rip-lye, 
eh?" 

"Rip-lye,  m'sieu'  ?" 

"Ah,  thad  news  you  wizh  me  to  inform 
you  from  Madame  Merrifiel'.  Sinze  several 
hour'  'tis  waiting,  thad  news.  But  I  like 
that,  your  dillybration;  you  will  perchanze 
have  the  patienze  if  first  I  h-ask  you  some 
news — of  my  son." 

"M'sieu',  'tis  for  that  I  am  biftV  you. 
I  h-owe  you  one  debt " 

"'Sieur  Davezac,  no.  My  God!  if  my 
son  was  a  liT  mo'  like  you — • — •" 

"If  he  was  a  liT  mo'  like  me,  m'sieu',  he 
would  be  sleeping  to-night  in  the  calaboose, 
yes." 

"My  God!    young  man,  you   'ave  save' 
my  son  from  the  calaboose  ?" 
[137] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"I  'ave  save'  who'  I  can,  but  yo'  good 
neighbo'  of  the  negs  door : 

"Miguel  and  Joe?" 

"They  are  in  the  calaboose." 

"And  Baptiste?" 

"In  the  calaboose." 

"And  Posson  Jone'?" 

"In  the  calaboose." 

"And  that  Collosse  of  Rhode'?" 

"The  devil  only  know'!" 

"And  Jules?" 

"M'sieu',  yo'  son  is  ad  yo'  door." 

The  father  half  left  his  chair,  but  a  pain 
ful  thought  forced  him  back  again.  "Young 
man,  young  man,  you  'ave  lent  monie  to  my 
son — to  ruin  him  worze  than  biffo'  ?" 

"Lend  monie — my  faith!     I  beg  him  till 
I  sweat! — I  beg  him   till   I   swear! — I   beg 
him  till  I  cry ! — no  use !    I  canned  make  him 
[138] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

to  borrow  me.  All  he  say,  'My  conscien'! 
my  honor!  Pay  my  debt'  with  yo'  monie? 
Ampossib'!" 

Again  the  judge  half  left  his  chair,  but 
again  he  restrained  himself.  "And  my  son 
he  is  yond'  at  my  door  to  talk  to  me  ab-out 
paying  those " 

"No,  m'sieu';  he's  there  to  ged  that  Pos- 
son  Jone'  let  out  from  calaboose." 

"Hah!"  The  judge  was  disappointed. 
"But  any'ow,  tha'  Jz  well;  I  never  intan' 
Posson  Jone'  to  be  put  in  calaboose.  Only 
Jules  he  ought  come  mo'  sooner!" 

"No,  m'sieu',  no  uze  to  come  mo'  sooner, 
till  Posson  Jone'  he  'ave  time  to  sleep  off 
thad  lemonade.  And  w'iles  he's  doing  that 
we  try  to  fine  his  ole  niggah — my  soul!  we 
are  nearly  parizh'  with  hunting  thad  black 
imbecile." 

[139] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

The  judge,  his  ear  quickened  by  his  yearn 
ing,  suddenly  started  for  the  door  and  as  he 
went  its  bell  softly  jingled.  But  when  he 
opened  it,  there  stood,  not  his  son,  but  Pere 
Raphael.  If  M.  Davezac  had  believed  him 
self  caught  in  a  trap  set  for  him  he  could 
not  have  stared  with  more  disconcertion. 
Suddenly,  with  scarcely  a  decent  salutation 
to  the  newcomer,  he  said  to  the  judge,  "I'll 
go  and  fedge  yo'  son." 

But  with  a  kind  gesture  Pere  Raphael  de 
tained  him,  while  addressing  the  judge. 
"Yo'  son?  He's  not  there.  But  yet  he's 
coming.  Only,  he  rim-ember  one  other 
plaze  to  look  for  that  domestique  he's  hunt 
ing,  and  he  say  tell  M.  Davezac  wait  till  he 
come." 

"Good!"  cried  the  judge,  in  pure  glad 
ness.    "And  to  pazz  the  time  whiles  waiting 
[140] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

—card'!  Card',  Pere  Raphael!  like  this 
morning  arrange'.  And  the  game  a  three- 
cornered  till  Jules  come  and  make  it  a  four!" 
Pere  Raphael  hesitated.  "If  monsieur," 
he  said,  "will  pardon  me  not  uncovering  the 
head  ?— biccause  I"— his  throat  seemed  still 
to  be  ailing— "I  'ave  leave'  be'ind  me  that 
shed  for  those  sore  h-eye." 

"Ah,  you  shall  take  mine!"  cried  the  host. 
But  that  kind  of  loan  was  not  one  for  a  lender 
to  insist  upon,  and  they  sat  down  to  the  game 
as  they  were.  While  they  were  in  it  to  the 
elbows  the  door-bell  sounded  again  and  Jules 
St.-Ange  presently  stood  before  them.  Father 
and  son  said  a  cautiously  kind  good-evening. 
The  others  bowed. 

"  Continue,  messieurs,"  begged  the  young 
man,  "ah,  con-tinue  the  game.    I  am  come 

only " 

[141] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Ah,  we  know,"  said  the  judge;  "but 
tha'  'z  not  a  necessaire  presently.  Come, 
you  shall  play,  my  boy.  There  is  yo'  chair, 
there  are  yo'  counter',  waiting  sinze  the  big- 
gening.  Come!" 

"Ah,  no,  papa.  I  like  to  play  you  thad 
game,  messieurs,  yes;  and,  beside',  I  like  to 
win  me  some  monie.  To-night  tha'  'z  the 
firs'  time  I  ever  got  use  for  monie;  mais,  'ow 
I'm  goin'  to  win  me  anything  if  all  that  time 
I  dunno  if  I'm  goin'  ged  that  paper  for 
Posson  Jone5  to  pazz  out  ?  Ah,  no ! " 

"For  w'at  thad  Posson  Jone'  is  in  cala 
boose,  my  son  ?  " 

"Papa,  he  is  there  for  a  verie  strange;  he 
is  lock'  for  his  ril-igion." 

"My  son !  for  his  ril-igion  ? " 

"Tis  for  preaching  the  specious  provi 
dence!    I  know,  Pere  Raphael,  for  you  that 
[142] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

would  be  a  sin,  to  preach  that  in  the  church; 
but  Posson  Jone'  he  di'n'  preach  that  in  the 
church;  he  preach'  it  ad  thad  bull-ring.  He 
thing  it  is  right  ad  that  bull-ring;  well,  then, 
ad  that  bull-ring  it  is  right.  Ah,  if  he  'ave 
the  'abit  to  thing  that  is  right,  well,  he  cann' 
he'p  that;  'tis  his  'abit." 

"Assuredlee,"  murmured  Pere  Raphael. 

"Me,  I  don't  care  about  those  'abit'," 
cried  the  prodigal,  with  sudden  warmth, 
"if  a  man  stick  to  his  ril-igion  and  pay  his 
debt'!" 

"Ah!"  cried  the  judge,  in  a  glow. 

"An'  if  he  can  fight  like  he  preach'!" 
exclaimed  M.  Davezac. 

"Ah,  bah!"  laughed  the  judge.  "Posson 
Jone'  he  fight  w'en  they  try  to  stop  him 
pritching?" 

"Mais  certainement,"  said  Jules,  "in  that 
[143] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

whole  city  there  is  not  a  priest  to  fight  like 
that  Posson  Jonc' — exceb'"— he  saluted 
deferentially — "that  be  Pere  Raphael.  Bic- 
ause,  my  faith!  I  bil-ieve  he  fight  juz'  as 
good  if  he  'ave  been  sober.  And  same  time 
crying — to  pay  his  debt'!" 

"Jules,  my  boy," — the  judge  pointed  to 
an  escritoire — "write  me  there  for  Posson 
Jone'  to  pazz  from  that  calaboose  so  soon 
he  want'." 

"Also  Baptiste,  papa?"  asked  Jules,  as 
he  labored  with  the  pen. 

"Yes,  likewise  pud  that — 'also  the  mu 
latto  boy  Baptiste.'  Give  it  me — and  the 
pen." 

Presently  the  pass  was  in  the  son's  breast 
pocket,  and  the  four  took  up  the  cards. 
From  the  first  Pere  Raphael  had  played  with 
a  nerve  that  challenged  the  judge's  admira- 
M441 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

tion,  and  now  at  once  began  to  lead  the  bet 
ting  with  a  gentle  and  taciturn  intrepidity. 
Dimitry  followed  with  equal  daring,  the 
judge  and  his  son  laughed  and  kept  their 
caution,  and  Jules  dragged  in  the  constant 
and  startling  losses  of  the  reckless  pair.  It 
seemed  but  a  hop,  skip,  and  jump  from  the 
time  they  began  until  these  two  rose  with  an 
air  of  resignation. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  host,  "finish-ingr?  Me, 
I  am  loser  al-so,  but  that  luck  boun*  to  turn. 
We  are  juz'  commance'." 

M.  Davezac  shrugged  amusedly  and 
spread  his  hands  downward.  "To  com 
mance  'tis  enough;  I  'ave  precisely  los'  all 
I've  got  there  with  me" 

"Me  the  same,"  coughed  Pere  Raphael. 

First  one  and  then  the  other  drew  forth  a 
wallet  and  laid  its  paper  contents  uncounted 
[1451 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

before  Jules.  The  prodigal  rose,  made  them 
into  one  wad,  and  with  a  gracious  bow  thrust 
them  into  the  same  pocket  that  held  the  par 
son's  release.  The  father  rose  last,  and 
stood  in  unconfessed  but  passionate  sus 
pense. 

"Well,  messieurs,"  said  Jules,  saluting  as 
he  backed  away,  "you  will  egscuse  that 
hurry,  with  my  fran'  in  that  calaboose, 
and " 

"Jules,"  responded  the  judge,  following 
toward  the  drawing-room  door,  while  Pere 
Raphael  and  Davezac  drew  away  in  opposite 
directions,  "you  don't  need  to  go  if  you — " 
He  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm;  his  sister  stood 
beside  him. 

"Jules,"  she  interposed,  "if  you  'ave  there 
already  not  quite  enough  to  pud  you  out  of 

debt " 

[146] 


P  E  R  E     R  A  P  II  A  E  L 

"Tante, — papa," — the  son  drew  forth  his 
gajns — "I  win  that  in  yo'  'ouse,  and  from 
fran'.  You  thing  that  bo  honorab'  to  pay 
that  to  shopkippcr?  My  faith,  that  is  a 
secred!"  He  looked  round  to  appeal  the 
point  to  Pere  Raphael,  but  the  hooded 
figure  had  vanished,  and  Davezac  stood 
between  him  and  his  kindred,  heaving 
with  indignation.  "M'sieu'  St.-Ange!"  said 
Dimitry. 

Jules  smiled  fondly.   "  M'sieu'  Davezac  ?  " 

"You  know  w'at  I  would  say,  me,  if  that 
was  not  yo'  'ouse  here  ?" 

"Tis  not  my  'ouse.  W'at  that  is  you 
would  say?" 

"I  would  say,  take  that  monie  and  pay 
those  debt',  or  fight  me  under  those  live- 
oak',  Bayou  St.  Jean,  to-morrow  sun-rise!" 

The  prodigal  smiled  on.     "I  meet  you 
[147] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

there.  My  faith!  tha'  'z  the  first  time  I  ever 
got  use  for  monie,  and  then  you  thing  I'm 
goin'  teck  it  and  pay  my  debt9?  Ah,  m'sieu', 
I  be  sorry  to  fighd  you  for  that,  but — 'tis  a 
matt'  of  conscien' ! " 

The  speaker's  last  glimpse  of  the  company 
as  he  left  them  showed  the  judge  turning 
fiercely  upon  Davezac,  and  his  aunt  heatedly 
arraigning  her  brother.  Surely  he  would  not 
have  shut  himself  out  had  he  seen  his  father, 
at  the  instant  of  the  door's  closing,  saved 
from  a  fall  only  by  the  arms  of  Tante  and 
Florestine  as  the  latter  darted  into  the  room, 
or  had  he  heard  himself  imperatively  called 
by  the  weeping  girl. 

The  judge  recovered  himself,  lifted  the 
shade  from  his  eyes,  painfully  blinked  around 
the  room,  and  spoke  with  dignity.  "  M'sieu' 

Davezac — Pere  Raphael " 

[148] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

But  not  even  Tante  or  Florestine  remained 
to  reply.  Only  Caroline  responded :  "Miche 
Dabzac  an'  Pere  Raphael  done  gone,  miche. 
Yass,  suh,  by  de  po'te-cochere."  A  state 
ment,  like  history,  only  partly  true. 

Once  more  the  market-houses  sparkled 
with  candles,  resounded  with  cheerful  dis 
cords.  Out  on  Bayou  Road,  in  the  sky 
that  overarched  suburb  St.  Jean,  the  Sab 
bath  night  faded  into  day.  Under  one  of 
the  bayou's  vast  oaks  stood  Caroline,  casting 
frightened  eyes  everywhere  and  speaking 
warily  to  some  one  out  of  sight.  "  Dis  bound 
to  be  de  place,"  she  said;  "yondeh  de 
schooneh;  but  no  pahson,  an'  no  Miche 
Jules.  Lawd,  sen'  'em  quick!  Look'  to  me 
like  ow  dough  done  cook'  when  I  see  de 
jedge  an'  po'  ole  momselle  leave  de  house 
[149] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

afo'  day,  but  when  dey  tu'n'  off  to  look  up 
Father  Pierre  I  praise'  G —  Good  Lawd, 
yondeh  come  Miche  Dabzac!" 

"Hi-ide!"  stealthily  called  her  hidden  con 
federate,  but  Dimitry  had  seen  her. 

"Mawnin',  Miche  Dabzac,"  the  maid 
pertly  saluted,  "mawnin',  suh." 

With  a  stately  frown  he  signed  to  her  to 
speak  more  quietly,  and  she  obeyed,  though 
with  a  show  of  amusement. 

"D'  ain't  nobody  here  'cep'  you  an'  me, 
an*  us  all  done  ruin'  now,  anyhow,  'less  'n 
I  can  waylay  Pahson  Jone'  an'  'suade 
him  fo'  to  not  let  Miche  Jules  give  him 
dat  ah  monie.  Dass  all  Miss  Flo'stine 
'ould  eveh  sen'  me  out  here  faw  at  dis 
scan'lous  hour." 

"Then  go  you  back.    Tell  her  he  shall  not 
give  it,  I  shall  privvent  him!" 
[150] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

"Lawd,  miche,  but  s'posin'  he  done  gi'n 
it  to  him  already." 

"He  shall  give  it  him  back.  Go  you  at 
home;  tha'  'z  nod  the  place  for  you  here.  My 
faith!  militraise,  I  bil-ieve  you  are  there 
only  to  fine  that  vilain  Baptiste." 

"I  swear  I  ain't!  I  ain't  see'  dat  fool 
sence  de  middle  o'  de  night,  when  he  set 
off  ag'in  to  try  to  scare  up  Pahson  Jone' 
ole  niggeh." 

"Go  you  at  home,  Caroline." 

"Miche  Dabzac,  I  see'  Miss  Abby  sence 
I  see'  you  las'." 

The  maid  backed  enticingly  toward  the 
trunk  of  the  oak;  the  young  man  followed. 

"  Yass,  suh;   las'  evenin',  when  y'  all  gone, 

Pere  Raphael  an'  all,  Miss  Flo'stine  writ  me 

a  pass  an'  slipp'  me  out  fo'  to  run  tell  Miss 

Abby  an'  her  ma  how  Miche  Jules  'fuse  to 

[151] 


PERE  RAPHAEL 

pay  his  debt',  an'  w'at  pass  mo'oveh  'twix' 
him  an'  you — 

"Ah,  ah!  she 'ave  no  ri-ight ! " 

"Hoi'  on!  hoi'  on!  De  Lawd  move'  her 
to  do  it.  I  fine  'em  confessin'  dey  conscience 
to  one  'notheh,  Madame  Mayfiel'  a-sobbin' 
'caze  she  been  to  Catholic  church,  and  Miss 
Abby  'caze  o'  de  way  we  raise  dat  ah  monie; 
an'  when  I  tell  'em  o'  dis  yeh  las'  pickle  you 
done  got  us  in — 

"Me?  me?  me?" 

"Oh,  yass,  suh;  yass,  suh;  yass,  suh! 
When  you  tell  Miche  Jules  he  got  to  pay  or 
fight,  ain't  he  dess  djuty-bound  to  fight  and 
to  not  pay,  fo'  to  p'otec'  his  honoh  ?  You 
dess  ax  Miss  Flo'stine!" 

"Ah,  bah!  He  can  pay  firz'  and  fight 
after." 

The  maid  started  with  surprise,  but  then 
[152] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

laughed.  "My  sakes!  miche,  he  wouldn' 
think  o'  dat  in  fi-ive  years.  And  when  I  told 
dem  po'  ladies  what  you  done,  dey  dess  drap' 
'pon  one  'notheh  an'  cry  like  dey  heart— 
Lawd!  yondeh  Madame  MayfieP  now!" 

"Diable!  go  you  at  home !" 

"Too  late;  she  done  spied  me.  Oh,  now 
we  is  gone  done  it  to  de  las'  lick!  Here  she 
come  to  stop  de  djuel,  an'  fine  nobody  'cep' 
we  two  togetheh!  Fo'  Gawd's  sake!  ef  you 
got  yo'  djuelin'-tools  hid  away  anywhuz 
round  here,  run  fetch  'em  out  an'  parade 
'em  all  you  kin! 

"Mawnin',  Madame  Mayfiel'.  Lawd! 
you  out  here  alone  ?  " 

"Oh,  Caroline,  where  is  my  daughter? 
Where  is  Abigail?  And  why  does  Mr. 
Davezac  avoid  me  ?  " 

"Lawd!  Madame  Mayfiel',  he  think  'tis 
[153] 


P  E  R  E     RAPHAEL 

Miche  Jules  comin',  an'  he  dess  gone  git 
his  djuelin'-tools." 

The  young  man  reappeared.  He  bowed 
superbly  to  Mrs.  Merrifield,  but  glared  on 
Caroline.  "Miserable!  Who  has  stole  me 
those  sword'  from  the  hole  of  thad  tree?" 

"Swords!"  gasped  the  frightened  lady, 
at  which  the  youth  bowed  again  and  then 
stiffened  high. 

"Madame,  if  that  is  by  yo'  command— 

Her  brows  lifted  with  distress.  "No,  sir, 
no,  no!  I've  overstepped,  but  I  haven't 
stolen — oh,  who  can  tell  me  where  is  my 
daughter?" 

"Lawd  A'mighty!"  cried  Caroline,  "ain't 
she  home  in  bed  ?" 

"Bed  ?  We've  neither  of  us  touched  one! 
At  daylight  I  left  her  and  went  to  mar 
ket " 

[154] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

The  alarmed  Davezac  pressed  close. 
"You  leff  her?" 

"She  begged  me  to  go!  It  was  to  find 
you!  Oh,  sir,  I'll  buy  off  the  pawnbroker  if 
only  you'll  not  fight  until  we've  got  every 
thing  back  into  the  judge's  house!" 

"But  yo'  daughteh!  yo'  daughteh!  when 
you  have  ritturn'?" 

"I  found  her  note.  She'd  seen  Father 
Pierre  passing,  called  him  in  and  told  him 
all!  And  she's  gone  with  him,  writing  me 
that  I'd  understand!  But  I  don't,  and  I 
can't,  and  I'm  afraid  something  dreadful 
has- 

"Ah,  madame,  with  Father  Pierre,  no! 
They  'ave  gone  perchanze  ad  the  judge. 
I'll  go  there  and— 

He  sprang  to  go,  but  at  the  second  stride 
halted    squarely   before    the    small,    cowled 
[155] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

figure  of  Pere  Raphael,  who  had  issued  from 
a  clump  of  bushes  holding  out  to  him  the 
missing  swords.    "You  are  forgettingg ? " 
Yes !    I  was  forgettingg ! ' ' 

"Or  maybee  you  don't  want  to  fighd 
some  mo',  and  finding  egscuze  to  leave?" 

The  young  man  snatched  the  swords  and 
swelled  for  a  fitting  retort  from  a  Creole  gen 
tleman  to  a  priest  of  his  faith;  but  before  he 
could  find  it  Mrs.  Merrifield  and  Caroline 
rushed  in  between  them,  panting  in  fright  and 
shame,  "The  judge !  the  judge  and  his  sister ! " 

The  judge  and  his  sister  arrived  at  high 
speed,  she  with  her  hair  in  her  eyes,  he  with 
his  green  shade  on  one  ear.  "  Florestine ! " 
they  called.  "Florestine,  she's  not  here? 
Where  is  Florestine?  Ah,  Madame  Merri- 
fiel',  Florestine  is  gone  with  Jules !  Jules  have 
rob'  the  'ouse  and  gone  with  Florestine!" 
[156] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

But  the  distracted  mother  scarcely  heard 
them,  for  yet  another  pair  came  after  them 
in  close  pursuit,  and  with  a  moan  of  joy  she 
sprang  from  the  group  into  the  arms  of 
Abigail  beside  Father  Pierre,  while  Caroline 
tearfully  cried  to  the  judge  and  his  sister, 
"Momselle  Flo'stine  all  right,  mawsteh! 
She  safe,  mist'ess !  She  all  right  I  I  swah  to 
Gawd  she  all  right!  You  kin  ax  Pere 
Rapha' — o-o-oh,  Lawd,  but  dis  is  de  Lawd's 
own  doin's!  Yondeh  Miche  Jules  and  de 
piney-wood'  pahson!" 

Amid  these  preoccupations  Father  Pierre, 
hurriedly  drawn  aside  by  Pere  Raphael, 
received  from  that  small  informant  swift  as 
sertions  that  visibly  amazed  him,  and  prop 
ositions  to  which  he  nevertheless  eagerly 
consented.  As  Jules,  the  parson,  and  Bap- 
tiste  came  into  view  engrossed  in  the  wel- 
[157] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

come  sight  of  the  Isabella  schooner,  Father 
Pierre  waved  back  the  couples  about  him. 
"We  are  too  mannie,  ladies  and  gen'le- 
men.  Back,  iv  you  please — and  even  you, 
judge.  Pere  Raphael  and  me  we  are  sue- 
ficient." 

Pere  Raphael  was  already  moving  toward 
Jules  and  the  parson,  and  Father  Pierre  fol 
lowed.  At  the  vessel's  side  Parson  Jones 
paused  to  pledge  Jules  a  lifelong  affection. 
Grouped  with  the  ladies  and  Davezac  the 
judge  was  holding  himself  well  in  hand ;  but 
when  he  witnessed  the  love  and  admiration 
his  boy  had  won  from  a  stranger  and  the 
remotest  of  aliens,  his  sine  qua  non  crumbled 
at  last,  and  to  the  bounding  joy  of  all  behind 
him,  "Father  Pierre!"  he  warily  called,  "a 
word,  a  word,  not  more!  Say  to  Pere  Raph 
ael  he  can  tell  my  son  if  he  say  he  goin* 
[158] 


FERE     RAPHAEL 

pay  those  debt'  with  those  monie  everything 
be  all  right.    To  commance,  'tis  enough!" 

With  a  gay  nod  Father  Pierre  motioned 
him  off  and  pressed  nearer  Pere  Raphael. 
Before  they  could  come  close,  Jules,  follow 
ing  the  schooner  as  with  limp  sails  she  moved 
along  the  shore  to  the  poling  of  her  crew— 
but  all  that  is  of  earlier  record:  how  his 
card-table  winnings  were  offered  the  parson 
and  declined ;  how  Colossus  reappeared  and 
what  he  did;  how  Jules  swore,  laughed, 
and  wept,  and  how,  as  the  schooner  finally 
bore  away  his  God-sent  friend,  he  stood  and 
gazed  after  its  fading  topmasts. 

While  he  so  stood,  his  father,  oblivious  of 
all  bystanders,  the  green  shade  lost  and 
"those  sore  h-eye'"  forgotten,  stood  and 
gazed  on  him  with  a  sympathy  as  keen  and 
evident  as  his  yearning  suspense;  and  if  the 
[159] 


P  E  R  E     R  A  P  H  A  E  L 

observance  of  these  emotions  intensified  the 
sympathy  and  suspense  of  every  one,  what 
words  shall  tell  their  raptures  when  they  saw 
Jules  at  length  turn  and  say,  "Baptiste, 
you  know  what  I  goin'  do  wid  dis  monie  ?" 

"Non,  miche." 

"Well,  you  can  strike  me  dead  if  I  don't 
goin'  to  pay  all  my  debts." 

He  began  a  little  song,  if  you  remember; 
but  while  its  opening  measure  was  still  on 
his  tongue,  at  the  first  townward  bend  of  the 
path,  the  whole  glad  flock  of  his  seekers, 
with  the  judge  at  their  front,  stopped  his 
way. 

"Papa!"  exclaimed  the  joyous  prodigal. 

"My  son!"  cried  the  father.  "An  egs- 
change!  a  fair  egschange!  Yo'  absolution 
for  mine!" 

So  they  came  into  each  other's  arms.  Yet 
[160] 


PERE     RAPHAEL 

in  the  next  breath  they  were  half  apart  again. 
"But  Florestine?"  they  cried  in  one  breath, 
"ah,  where —  Both  voices  were  silenced 
by  Jules's  amazement  at  something  hap 
pening  behind  his  father,  and  the  judge,  turn 
ing,  stared,  with  his  son,  upon  Pere  Raphael 
frantically  clasping  and  kissing— kissing,  do 
you  realize  it? — kissing  and  embracing 
Tante,  Abigail,  Mrs.  Merrifield  and  even 
Caroline.  But  cowl  and  eye-shade  had  been 
crowded  off  the  face  and  head,  and  these 
were  the  face  and  head  of  Florestine. 

"Forgive  you,  my  child?"  the  aunt  was 
exclaiming.  "Ah,  betteh  you  h-ask  some 
body  betteh  than  me;  for,  me,  I  only  fine 
that  out,  that  robb'rie,  when,  too  late,  I 
commance'  to  make  the  same  thing  myseff." 

"To  commance,"  sighed  the  happy  girl  to 
Father  Pierre  as  they  all  turned  homeward 
[161] 


P  E  R  E     RAP  II  A  E  L 

together,  "'tis  enough.  Me,  the  same  like 
Jules,  I  am  discourage'  to  be  wicked  any 
mo',  those  Providence  get  al-ong  so  well 
without." 


[162 


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